- - 


V 


THE    PRAISE   OF   SONG 


BY 

ISAAC  BASSETT  CHOATE 


BOSTON 

CHAPPLE  PUBLISHING  COMPANY,  LTD. 
1914 


COPYRIGHT,    1914.   BY 
ISAAC   BASSETT   CHOATE 


THE    CHAPPLE    PRESS 
BOSTON,    MASS.,    U.S.A. 


CONTENTS 


PRELUDE 

PRAISE  OF  SONG    

INVITATION 

SONG 

REALM  OF  SONO    

POWER  OF  SONQ   

THEMES  OF  SONG    

MORNING  SONG 

YOUTH  OF  SONG    

HEIGHTS  OF  SONG 

AT  WORSHIP 11 

LIFE'S  CHORISTER 12 

EASTER  BELLS 13 

VILLAGE  BELLS   14 

CARILLON    15 

MAGIC  OF  SONG 16 

TRIUMPH  OF  SONG    17 

MY  SONG    18 

SING  ON    19 

CHARMED 20 

THE  CAGED  SINGER 21 

BRETON'S  SONG  OF  THE  LARK  22 

LARK  SONG 23 

HAUNT  OF  SONG   24 

IN  AONIA    25 

WHAT  SONG  BRINGS 26 

HOME  OF  SONG    27 

SONGS  OF  TODAY    28 

SONG 29 

TIDE  OF  SONG 30 

EBB  OF  SONG 31 

ENGLISH  SONG 32 

ELIZABETHAN  SONG 33 

WHAT  WAKENS  SONQ 34 

STREAM  OF  SONG 35 

WORTH  OF  SONG 36 

POET'S  CORNER  37 

GARDEN  OF  SONG    38 

EVOLUTION  OF  SONO 39 

REMEMBERED  SONG 40 

LAND  OF  SONG  .  .  .41 


PAGE  PAGE 

1  SONG'S  GOLDEN  CROWN 42 

2  NATURE  WORSHIP 43 

3  IN  NATURE'S  SANCTUARY    ...  44 

4  MAKING  OF  SONG 45 

5  To  THE  MUSE 46 

6  OUR  LEADER    47 

7  HERALDS  OF  DAY 48 

8  MUSES 49 

9  THE  SACRED  WELL 50 

10       WHEN  LIFE  WAS  YOUNG  ....  51 

FOLLOWING 52 

SONG  OF  GLADNESS 53 

SONG'S  PROVINCE    54 

THE  SINGER'S  WAGE   55 

IN  MINOR  KEY   56 

PRIMEVAL  SONG 57 

THE  SONG-MASTER 58 

SUNG  HUNTER 59 

SONG  MYTH   60 

OLD-TIME  SONG  61 

SONG-MAKING 62 

SUNRISE  SONGS    63 

SONG  OF  MEMORY 64 

LOVE,  THE  CHORISTER 65 

UNDERTONES 66 

MODERN  MUSES    67 

SONG  OF  TODAY 68 

SILENCED  SONG    69 

THE  CAGED  BIRD 70 

SONG-HAUNTED    71 

AN  IDLE  SONG 72 

SONG-SURVIVAL    73 

THE  MYSTERY 74 

WHAT  CHARM 75 

CHARM  OF  SONG   76 

GYPSY  SONG 77 

RAIN  SONG 78 

SOUL  OF  MELODY     79 

RENEWAL    80 

CRADLE  SONG 81 

OJIBWAY  LULLABY 82 


[iii] 


PAGE 

OUR  SONOS 83 

SONG  OF  LOTS 84 

A  LITTLE  SONG 85 

RIVER  SONG 86 

WHISTLING    87 

PRIMER  AND  PSALTER    88 

HEART  LONGING   89 

Music  OP  THE  BAY   90 

WIND  HARPS    91 

BY  THE  BROOK 92 

PLAINSONG    93 

IN  PRAISE  op  THE  OLD 94 

SOLITUDE 95 

HEART  OP  JUNE    96 

HAPPINESS 97 

SELF-BORN 98 

BY  THE  STREAM    99 

PIPES  OF  PAN    100 

THE  GOLDEN  AGE 101 

Music  OF  HUMANITY 102 

AT  THE  LOOM    103 

OF  SONG 104 

HARP  OP  THE  WOODS 105 

THE  SURVIVAL 106 

REPEATED  SONG    107 

IN  IDLENESS 108 

UNFOHOOTTBN 109 

SILENCES 110 

SOLACE  OP  SONG Ill 

SONG  OF  THE  RIVER 112 

SONG  FOR  RELIEF 113 

THE  LITTLE  HAND 114 

UNCHANGED    115 

HUSHED  THOUGHT 116 

REIGN  OF  SILENCE 117 

To  AVALON  . .  .118 


PAOB 

RESPONSIVENESS   119 

COMING  AND  GOING 120 

LIGHT  AND  SHADE 121 

BROKEN  STRAINS 122 

SLEEP 123 

OFF  SIREN  SHORE 124 

NATURE'S  TRAINING 125 

INTIMATIONS 126 

SONG  IN  WINTER 127 

WOOD  NOTES 128 

THE  LINNETS'  LESSON 129 

POET  LORE 130 

THE  SUMMER  BIRD 131 

THE  IDLE  SINGER 132 

HEART  OP  OAK    133 

LIFE  AND  LOVE 134 

THE  ANGELUS   135 

WAYS  OF  SONG    136 

ART  Is  NOT  ALL 137 

FORESHADOWINGS 138 

THE  SINGER'S  TASK 139 

SONG  BY  THE  RIVER    140 

SONG'S  NATIVITY 141 

To  BION 142 

AT  DELPHI  143 

Music  OF  THE  HEART 144 

BY  TURNS 145 

SPELL  OF  SILENCE 146 

SING  ON,  MY  LUTE    147 

WHITHER  FLED 148 

GARDEN  OF  LETTERS   149 

SONG  IN  NOVEMBER 150 

MY  LUTE,  GOOD-BYE 151 

DEDICATING  MY  LYRE 152 

L'ENVOYE 153 

LADS  DEO  . .                154 


IV 


THE    PRAISE    OF    SONG 


INVOCATION 

Sweet  Spirit  that  informs  our  English  tongue 
With  the  full  tenderness  of  melody, 

Didst  help  to  modulate  what  songs  were  sung 
In  England's  time  of  youthful  ecstasy, 
When  would  my  fingers  vainly  seek  the  key 

That  should  unlock  emotions  of  the  heart, 

My  skill  has  lost  the  art, 

And  I,  forsooth,  am  forced  to  come  to  thee, 

A  suppliant,  and  beg  thou  wilt  impart 
Most  graciously 
Thy  help  to  one  who  serves  in  minstrelsy 


PRELUDE 

OONG  has  no  limiting  in  space, 

Nor  any  bounds  in  time ; 
Song's  rights  of  sovereignty  embrace 

People  of  every  clime; 

Nobility  sublime 

Is  not  above  Song's  charming  grace, 
Nor  are  the  lowliest  of  our  race 

Deaf  to  the  rhythm  and  rhyme 

That  in  her  numbers  chime. 

Who,  then,  will  venture  forth  to  bring 

What  tribute  may  belong 
To  modulations  soft  that  cling 

In  melodies  of  Song ; 

To  what  has  echoed  long 
In  pasans  that  of  victory  sing, 
In  dirges  sad  with  sorrowing, 

From  hearts  are  crushed  by  wrong, 

From  hearts  by  Faith  made  strong? 


1] 


PRAISE   OF  SONG 

IT  may  be  that  the  singing  bird 
In  artless  symphony  is  heard 

Lone  countryside  along ; 
The  bird  is  gracious  to  beguile 
The  wayfarer  a  weary  mile 

With  magic  of  its  song. 

It  may  be  that  a  child's  voice  sweet 
Is  heard  upon  the  city  street 

From  out  that  eager  throng ; 
Some  sorry  heart  is  filled  with  cheer 
That  innocent  young  heart  to  hear 

Poured  in  pathetic  song. 

Song  has  the  gift  our  ease  to  bless, 
Relieve  the  anguished  soul's  distress, 

A  gracious  helper  strong ; 
And  that  is  just  the  reason  why, 
In  these  unstudied  rhymes,  do  I 

Attempt  the  Praise  of  Song. 


2] 


INVITATION 

V-iOME  to  the  fields — out  into  open  air, 
On  tireless  wings,  are  swallows  flying  there; 
Across  blue  skies,  dark  clouds,  white-bordered,  go, 
And  free  as  flying  clouds  themselves  do  shadows 

sweep  below ; 

Where  all  is  life,  there  must  life's  pulses  bound, 
And  there  the  thought  and  soul  of  man  must  rise 

above  the  ground. 

It  is  not  in  the  wealth  of  ripening  field, 

Not  in  the  golden  grain  these  furrows  yield, 

That  chiefly  does  the  charm  of  nature  lie; 

But  in  the  glorious  landscape  here  that  feeds  the 

famished  eye, 
Rough  granite  crags    that   form  the  mountain's 

face, 
Fair  meadows,  violet-robed,  that  lie  in  slumber  at 

its  base. 

Come  to  the  fields — come  to  the  banquet  spread, 
At  which  the  heart  and  soul  of  man  are  fed, 
Where  in  the  stillness  at  the  dawn  is  heard 
The  loud  exultant  morning-song  of  happy-waking 

bird; 

Where  at  the  closing  of  the  day  is  seen, 
With  sunset  glory  overspread,  all  earth  and  heaven 

between. 


[3] 


SONG 

.L/ONG  as  there  may  be  youth, 

And  life  yields  a  generous  wine, 
Long  as  men  reverence  Truth 

And  in  worship  kneel  at  her  shrine, 
They  in  their  hearts  will  so  long 
Keep  singing  the  praises  of  song. 

Long  as  the  warm  heart  shall  beat 
With  a  passionate  throb  for  the  right, 

While  the  hand  and  the  sword-hilt  shall  meet 
In  a  readiness  both  for  the  fight, 

So  long  in  the  world — ah!  so  long 

Will  the  hero  be  honored  with  song. 

Long,  then,  as  beauty  may  bloom 

To  cover  all  trace  of  decay; 
Long,  then,  as  duty  may  loom 

On  the  sun-lighted  path  of  today, 
Both  beauty  and  duty  so  long 
Will  be  the  fair  province  of  song. 


4J 


REALM   OF   SONG 


hath  a  realm  its  own  ; 

No  limits  to  its  sphere 

Of  sovereignty  here, 
Where  on  imperial  throne 
Song  reigns  supreme,  alone, 

No  rival  power  near. 

This  hath  no  bounds  in  space 
More  than  have  winds  that  blow 
Over  far  peaks  of  snow, 
Across  the  ocean  race  ;  — 
Song  finds  a  homelike  place 
Wherever  it  may  go. 

No  more  doth  Song  in  time 

Have  any  limit  set  ; 

The  World  will  ne'er  forget 
Songs  of  its  earliest  prime, 
Enshrined  in  rhythm  and  rhyme, 

Ring  strains  of  Miriam  yet. 

So  is  it  everywhere, 

Rough  ways  of  life  along, 
Weary  of  strife  and  wrong, 

Worn  with  our  work  and  care, 

We  meet  the  cheerful  air, 
Sweet  charming  lilt  of  Song. 


5] 


POWER  OF  SONG 

1  HE  river  wears  its  channel  deep 

Where  pours  its  current  strong, 
Where  over  rocks  and  ledges  steep 
The  foaming  waters  madly  leap 

And  swiftly  rush  along ; 
There,  never  do  the  echoes  sleep, 
But,  faithful  to  their  duty,  keep 
Repeating  Nature's  song. 

It  is  not  where  the  waters  rest, 

Low  grassy  banks  between, 
Where  lilies  sleep  upon  their  breast, 
Where  level  meadow  lands  are  dressed 

In  robes  of  living  green ; 
It  is  not  there,  with  leisure  blessed, 
The  sluggish  waters  sing  their  best 
Songs  to  the  meadow  queen. 

It  is  the  stir  of  life  that  sends 
Thought's  tidal  wave  along ; 
The  hammer-stroke  of  labor  blends 
With  stroke  of  weapon  that  defends 

The  right  against  the  wrong ; 
The  pulsing  beat  of  purpose  bends 
Life's  action  to  harmonious  ends 
That  flood  the  world  with  song. 


[6] 


THEMES  OF  SONG 

W  HAT  worthy  theme  of  song 
Shall  claim  the  singer's  art 

That  it  may  linger  long 
In  hospitable  heart, 

Be  cherished  as  a  guest 

In  the  warm,  loving  breast 

Of  one  who  would  not  wrong 
Friendship  in  any  part? 

Of  war  and  victory, 

Adventures  far  and  bold, 
High  deeds  of  chivalry 

Done  in  brave  days  of  old, — 
Giving  immortal  fame 
To  Valor's  splendid  name, 
Has  ancient  minstrelsy 

War's  tale  of  glory  told. 

The  singer  of  today 

Needs  naught  of  war's  alarms, 
But  rather  will  he  stay 

The  ready  rush  to  arms; 
Of  peace  will  he  rehearse 
The  blessings  in  his  verse, 
And  of  the  Muses  pray 

They  crown  this  with  their  charms. 


7] 


MORNING  SONG 

z\  SONG  of  the  early  morn 
To  the  genial  day,  new  born, 

To  speed  the  flight 

Of  the  shadowy  night 
Over  lands  and  seas  forlorn. 

A  song  that  the  glad  heart  sings 
To  the  opening  day,  that  brings 

To  you  and  to  me 

Some  ministry 
Of  gladness  to  humble  things. 

A  carol  of  thankfulness 

For  the  sunshine  that  comes  to  bless 

Poor  hearts  of  ours, 

And  our  feeble  powers 
To  help  in  another's  distress. 

An  outburst  of  melody, 

A  paean  of  victory 

When  the  task  is  done, 
When  the  plaudits  are  won, 

And  we're  home  from  life's  stormy  sea. 


[8] 


YOUTH   OF   SONG 

/\GE  may  not  touch  the  happy  heart  of  Song 

That  is  from  happy  heart  of  minstrel  sung ; 
To  childhood  life  its  merry  strains  belong, 

And  so  its  own  life  is  forever  young ; 

As  joyous  as  when  first  'twas  heard  among 
Dark  pines  that  grace  the  slopes  of  Helicon, 

Or  olive  groves  beside  the  ^gean  Sea, — 
Its  measures  suited  to  pipes  played  upon 

By  shepherds  tending  flocks  in  Thessaly. 

He  cannot  miss — true  singer  of  today — 
The  magic  of  that  minstrelsy  of  old ; 

Its  music,  ringing  ever  light  and  gay, 
Has  charm  resistless  in  its  power  to  hold 
His  spirit  loyal  to  that  Age  of  Gold; 

And  when  it  is  that  he  essays  to  rhyme 
The  gentle  rapture  of  his  soul  in  truth, 

The  measure  of  his  melody  must  chime 

With  that  of  old,  and  Song  renew  its  youth. 


[9] 


HEIGHTS  OF  SONG 

\VHAT  land  is  sacred  now  to  truth  and  duty, 

For  right  and  justice  strong ; 
Through  ages  loyal  still  to  youth  and  beauty,— 

The  favored  Land  of  Song? 

Now  that  the  Muses  join  no  more  in  chorus 

Around  Pierian  spring, 
Sweet  voices  that  have  thrown  enchantment  o'er  us 

No  longer,  longer  sing. 

For  what  fair  land  has  Melody,  forsaken, 

Left  her  Castalian  shrine? 
On  what  highway  may  she  be  overtaken 

By  halting  steps  of  mine? 

Ah,  whither  have  they  fled,  unhappy  Muses, 

From  Helicon  have  fled? 
The  cry  is  vain.    The  modern  world  refuses 

That  steep  way  to  be  led. 

Now  must  the  singer  journey,  unattended, 

A  cheerless  road  along ; 
But  yet  he  lifts  his  eyes  to  vision  splendid,— 

To  glorious  Heights  of  Song. 


10 


AT  WORSHIP 

11 E  who  would  know  what  beauty  is  abroad, 
Summer  and  winter,  on  New  England  hills, 

What  smiling  overspreads  the  April  sod, 
What  rippling  laughter  goes  beside  the  rills, 
Light-hearted  joy  of  wind-blown  daffodils, 

Must  bring  a  soul  responsive  to  the  nod 
Of  buttercups,  to  look  of  violets  shy, 

Faith  that  he  follows  where  have  fairies  trod, 
Heaven's  gracious  gift, — the  beauty-seeing  eye. 

He  who  would  feel  the  harmony  of  sound 

In  Nature's  sanctuary  to  be  heard, 
That  breathes  a  benediction  soft  around, 

Sweet  psalm  of  peacefulness  without  a  word ; 

The  blended  voice  of  wind  with  voice  of  bird 
To  thrill  the  heart  with  ecstasy  profound, 

He  must  into  this  spacious  temple  here 
Come  silently,  with  wreathed  myrtle  crowned, 

And  listen  long  with  sympathetic  ear. 


LIFE'S   CHORISTER 

JLIE  who,  the  best  of  singers,  taught 

A  race  of  shepherds  how  to  sing, 
Who  from  the  banks  of  Ladon  brought 

Green  rushes,  lightly  whispering 
What  secrets  of  the  winds  they  heard, 
What  sighs  their  tremulous  being  stirred, 
And  what  was  story  softly  sweet 
Of  waters  flowing  round  their  feet ; 

He  leadeth  still 

By  lapsing  rill, 

With  all  the  old  Arcadian  skill. 

Blue  violets  spring  about  our  feet 

While  we  go  listening  down  the  stream, 
With  breath  of  bloom  the  air  is  sweet, 

And  soft  as  whisper  in  a  dream ; 
If  then  we  heed  the  rushes'  stir, 
We  hear  th'  Arcadian  chorister 
Pipe  on  his  syrinx,  faint  and  low, 
What  pleased  the  shepherds  long  ago; 

And  thus  may  we, 

Entranced,  be 

Led  to  the  vast,  deep  Mystery. 


12] 


EASTER   BELLS 


O 


'VER  the  broken  fells, 
Over  the  valleys  wide 

Comes  far  ringing  of  bells, 

Gladly  it  tells 

Full  joy  of  the  Eastertide. 

Earth  from  her  slumber  wakes, 
Roused  by  the  morning  song 

Of  birds  whose  melody  breaks 

Silence  that  makes 

Our  winter  seem  so  long. 

Now  from  the  cradling  grass 
Look  up  the  violets  sweet ; 

Tears  fill  their  eyes,  alas! 

While  the  chimings  pass 
With  music-sandalled  feet. 

And  still  loud  ringing  of  bells, 
Over  the  countryside, 

Rises  and  falls  and  swells 

Into  canticles 

Of  joy  for  the  Eastertide. 


13] 


VILLAGE   BELLS 

OVER  densely- wooded  region, 

Rugged  slopes  and  hollow  dells, 
Fir  and  spruce,  a  countless  legion — 

Over  all,  the  sound  of  bells; 
Sabbath  bells,  in  measure  ringing, 

Many  a  mile  of  woods  away, 
From  the  distant  hamlet  bringing 

Sweet  remindings  of  the  day! 

Chime  of  bells  with  Nature  blending 

In  a  symphony  divine, 
Congregated  forest  lending 

Voice  of  hemlock,  voice  of  pine ; 
As  a  harp-string  set  in  motion 

By  an  organ's  measured  beat, 
As  a  shell  beside  the  ocean 

Learns  its  music  to  repeat, — 

So  today  those  bells  are  ringing 

As  I  heard  them  ring  of  yore, 
To  my  thought  their  music  bringing, 

Years  of  varied  fortune  o'er, 
Notes  that  waken  as  from  slumbers 

Memories  I've  cherished  long, 
As  the  Morning  wakes  to  numbers 

And  begins  the  day  with  song. 


[14] 


CARILLON 

IT  is  a  morning  of  the  summer  time, 

A  tender  Sabbath  morning,  calm  and  still, 
Far  over  wooded  valleys  comes  the  chime 
Rung  out  from  village  belfry  on  the  hill ; 
The  music  fills  the  region  far  and  wide, 
Floods  farm  and  hamlet  of  the  countryside 
As  to  the  marshes  comes  the  constant  tide, 
Repeating  ebb  and  flow,  as  measured  rhyme 
Comes  to  its  cadence  at  the  singer's  will. 

So  is  it  that  a  music  as  of  bells, 

Chiming  in  harmony  their  notes  of  praise, 
O'er  boundless  stretches  of  our  being  swells 

And  deepens  silence  of  Sabbatic  days; 
A  music  that  about  our  memory  clings 
And,  like  returning  tide  of  ocean,  brings 
A  fresh  renewal  to  all  fainting  things; 
Unto  the  Heart  a  tender  story  tells, 

And  leads  fond  Fancy  forth  on  witching  ways. 


15 


MAGIC  OF  SONG 

1  HERE  is  somewhat  comes  with  the  singing, 

With  the  jubilant  song  of  a  bird, 
A  note  in  the  melody  bringing 

More  than  the  music  that's  heard ; 
There  is  somewhat  of  gladness  falling 

Out  of  the  heavens  today, 
Sweet  carol  of  Nature  calling 

Our  souls  to  the  hills  away. 

The  streamlet  with  constant  laughter 

Comes  down  rough  slope  of  the  hill, 
But  the  waters  are  silent  after, 

In  the  pools  they  are  lying  still ; 
And  there  chimes  with  that  merry  tinkling 

The  course  of  the  brook  along, 
Glad  voice  of  a  bobolink  sprinkling 

The  earth  with  fragments  of  song. 

The  magic  of  song  in  the  meadow 

And  the  magic  of  song  in  the  sky, 
These  are  closely  related,  as  shadow 

Is  brother  to  clouds  on  high ; 
And  the  song  that  is  sung  by  the  linnet 

Has  somewhat  defying  art, — 
A  passionate  joy  within  it 

That  chimes  with  the  joy  in  my  heart. 


[16] 


TRIUMPH   OF   SONG 

JVlEN  build  for  coming  years, 

For  ages  far  ahead, 
Lay  arches  and  supporting  piers 

On  most  unyielding  bed ; 
To  plumb-line  brick  and  stone  are  laid, 
With  buttresses  the  walls  are  stayed, 
And  yet  with  all  the  skill  displayed 

Decay  is  closely  wed. 

How  many  cities  of  the  past 

Have  built  their  walls  to  stand, 
Their  palaces,  their  temples  vast, 

Their  portals  proudly  grand! 
But  now  those  walls  are  fallen  low, 
On  broken  arch  wild  olives  grow, 
And  sculptured  stone  is  wearing  slow 
To  waste  of  drifting  sand. 

However  wisely  planned 

And  built  however  strong, 
Of  masonry  no  pride  can  stand 

The  wear  of  ages  long ; 
Foundations  laid  with  utmost  care 
And  walls  erected  true  and  fair 
Cannot  for  permanence  compare 

With  Miriam's  victory  song. 


17 


MY  SONG 

JVlY  song,  it  cannot  change, 

For,  ever  lingering, 

It  haunts  the  vibrant  string ; 
My  song,  it  cannot  range 

Beyond  the  theme  I  sing. 

My  song  must  be  the  same 

Whether  occasion  be 

Defeat  or  victory ; 
Bestowing  praise  or  blame 

Is  not  the  role  for  me. 

I  can  but  sing  the  note 
Of  gladness  that  I  hear 
Repeated  year  by  year, 

And  only  learned  by  rote 
As  it  came  to  my  ear. 

This  slender  song  of  mine 

Is  but  the  overflow 

Of  melody  below, 
Full  crowning  of  the  wine 

Of  life  that  sparkles  so. 


[18] 


SING  ON! 

OING  on  to  welcome  day, 

To  greet  the  coining  light ; 
Sing  on  with  happy  heart,  I  pray, 
The  eastern  clouds  are  bright ; 
Sing  on,  O  happy  bird, 
Thy  song  is  gladly  heard, 
Thy  music  charms  all  gloom  away, 
Thy  beauty  charms  our  sight. 

Sing  on  at  noontide  hour 

When  other  throats  are  still, 
And  let  thy  song  with  magic  power 
These  woodland  arches  fill. 
Thy  singing  is  always 
More  eloquent  of  praise 
Than  voice  of  man,  with  song  for  dower, 
With  help  of  human  skill. 

Sing  on  till  eventide 

Shall  bring  the  world  to  rest, 
Till  quiet  peacefulness  abide 
Within  the  swallow's  nest; 
Sing  on,  thy  song  will  keep 
Its  rhythm  in  our  sleep ; 
Will  go  with  dreams,  though  ranging  wide, 
And  thus  our  dreams  be  blest. 


19 


CHARMED 

"HUSH!  Ohark!" 
With  the  sun  and  labor  tanned 
Does  the  enraptured  maiden  stand ; 
She  bids  her  soul  to  hear 
The  morning  song  so  clear 

Of  the  lark. 

"Hush!  O  hush!" 
Let  no  unfitting  word 
Alarm  the  singing  bird, 
No  note  discordant  wrong 
Well  modulated  song 

Of  the  thrush. 

That  bird  voice 
Has  all  the  magic  power 
For  one  uncounted  hour 
To  cause  the  girl  who  stands 
Mute,  with  uplifted  hands, 

To  rejoice. 

To  her  tongue 
Will  come  in  later  days 
Diviner  hymns  of  praise, 
Because  she  stopped  to  hear 
From  out  a  higher  sphere 

Matins  sung. 


[20] 


THE   CAGED   SINGER 

JjIRD  of  the  open  air 
On  whom  no  sun  has  shone, 

Fain  the  rough  winds  to  dare 
On  whom  no  winds  have  blown ; 

Caged  in  a  room  that's  bare 

Of  all  that's  bright  and  fair, 

Trilling  thy  music  where 
No  other  song  is  known! 

What  is  thy  cage  to  thee, 
O  bird  of  pinion  strong, 

Born  to  serve  Liberty, 
Enslaved  by  cruel  wrong? 

Here  is  no  chance  to  see 

What  charm  is  on  the  lea, 

Nor  to  list  the  melody 
Of  another  singer's  song. 

Ah  me,  that  men  should  bind, 

Thyself  in  bondage  hold ; 
Thy  song,  for  the  world  designed, 

Be  bargained  for  and  sold! 
Yet  mortals  are  resigned 
To  imprisonment  of  mind, 
If  only  their  bars  they  find 
Are  bars  o'erlaid  with  gold. 


21 


BRETON'S  SONG   OF  THE   LARK 

HARK,  hark! 

'Tis  the  singing  of  the  lark, 
Singing  and  singing  with  all  his  might, 
Thus  giving  his  welcome  to  the  light, 
With  joy  that  has  safely  passed  the  night, 

And  has  vanished  all  the  dark, — 

But  only  hark! 

High,  high! 

Till  the  lark  is  lost  in  the  sky, 
Till  only  his  song  now  sprinkles  the  lands 
With  melody  while  the  maiden  stands 
Holding  her  sickle  upraised  in  her  hands 

And  lost  to  her  toil  nearby 

In  ecstasy. 

Here,  here 

In  the  picture,  light  and  clear, 
Do  we  see  how  that  soul  upsprings 
To  mount  with  the  lark  that  sings 
As  if  on  the  song's  soft  wings, 

Into  bright  regions  near 

The  celestial  sphere. 


[22] 


LARK   SONG 

SlNG  on,  Sweet  Chorister  of  Heaven, 

Your  soul-inspiring  lay, 
To  whom  the  duty  has  been  given 

To  welcome  in  the  day! 
Sing  on,  so  far  beyond  our  sight, 

But  not  beyond  our  ear, 
That  men  and  angels  may  delight 

Your  matin  song  to  hear! 

How  through  the  air  the  singer  rose 

Upon  adventurous  wing, 
And  how  have  our  hearts  followed  close 

To  hear  the  minstrel  sing! 
Adown  your  pathway,  falling  straight, 

Your  strains  melodious  flow, 
And  angels  leaning  o'er  Heaven's  gate 

Hear  your  sweet  song  below. 

O  singer  of  the  upper  air, 

O  herald  of  the  day, 
How  happy  were  my  heart  if  there 

My  soul  could  make  its  way! 
How  happy  if  my  soul  might  soar 

As  lark  from  lowly  nest, 
And  in  the  song  my  lips  might  pour 

My  thought  could  be  expressed! 


23 


HAUNT  OF  SONG 


earliest  is  Echo  found 

Below  the  wooded  hill  to  stand, 

And  with  uplifted  hand 
Catch  the  first  footfall  sound 

Of  Morning  as  it  steals  along 
Within  the  shadow  of  the  wood, 

And  wakes  the  hermit  thrush  to  raise 

Its  matin  hymn  of  praise 
In  that  lone  solitude,  — 

There  is  the  chosen  haunt  of  Song. 

There  does  Song  love  to  dwell 

With  Echo  as  a  neighbor  near, 

And  there  she  loves  to  hear 
That  magic  voice  her  triumphs  tell 

To  all  the  listening  woods  around  ; 
There  is  the  dwelling  of  her  choice, 

And  there,  when  other  songs  are  still, 

She  hears  the  running  rill, 
On  its  long  course,  rejoice, 

Enchanted  with  the  melody  of  sound. 


[24] 


IN  AONIA 

DESIDE  the  sweet  Aonian  springs 
No  more  the  idle  shepherd  sings 

To  Pan,  the  keeper  of  his  flocks; 
The  voice  of  Echo  faintly  dies 
Away, — the  drought  of  summer  dries 

These  now  unsheltered  rocks. 

Only  the  cricket  keeps  its  song 
Unchanging  through  the  ages  long, 

Where  once  the  nightingale 
Poured  on  deep  silences  of  night 
A  melody  that  was  delight 

To  this  Muse-haunted  vale. 

Sweet-measured  song  that  charmed  the  ear 
Of  shepherd  folk — of  Pan — to  hear, 

Sung  over  linnet-wise ; — 
It  fails  us  as  the  water  fails 
The  springs  and  rivulets  of  the  vales, 

And  earth  the  poorer  lies. 


25 


WHAT  SONG   BRINGS 

(DOMING  from  the  mountains, 

Coming  from  the  hills, 
From  the  bubbling  fountains, 

From  the  running  rills ; 
Of  the  snow-cap  singing, 

Of  the  wooded  glen, 
What  may  Song  be  bringing 

To  the  hearts  of  men? 

Simple  notes  of  gladness, 

Notes  of  hearty  cheer, 
In  their  hours  of  sadness 

For  mourning  hearts  to  hear ; 
Unto  memory  ringing 

From  departed  years, 
And  to  sorrow  bringing 

Warm  sympathy  of  tears. 

From  heroic  ages, 

Dimmest  shores  of  time, 
History's  sober  pages 

Are  bordered  round  with  rhyme ; 
And  down  that  stream  of  story, 

Through  all  the  centuries  long, 
Is  brought  that  ancient  glory 

Upon  the  flood  of  song. 


26 


HOME   OF   SONG 

A  LAND  of  rising  hills, 

With  smiling  vales  between 

Fair  slopes  of  vivid  green, 
All  watered  and  made  glad  with  singing  rills; 

A  land  of  shadowy  wood, 

Where  in  the  summer  breeze 

Rustle  the  poplar  trees, 
And  wild  birds  sing  to  sleep  the  drowsy  brood; 

A  bounteous  land  that  yields 

Its  wealth  of  golden  grain, 

On  hillside  and  on  plain, 
To  reapers  singing  in  the  harvest  fields ; 

A  land  where  Freedom  dwells 
At  home  with  noblest  Thought, 
Where  dreams  of  Heaven  are  brought 

Enraptured  souls  on  chimes  of  vesper  bells; — 

To  such  a  land  belong 

The  duty  of  her  sons, 

And  of  her  singing  ones, 
That  they  salute  her  happy  Home  of  Song. 


[27] 


SONGS  OF  TODAY 


Wi 


HAT  song  shall  charm  the  world  anew, 
What  music  soft  and  tender 
Shall  follow  Pan's  low  pipings  through 
Enchanted  rushes  slender? 
The  waters  flow, 
The  rushes  grow 
As  erst  beside  the  river; 

The  breezes  blow, 
And,  shaken  so, 
Are  rushes  all  a-quiver, 
But  he  who  listens  heareth  no 
Sweet  pipings,  practised  soft  and  low 
By  Pan,  beside  the  river. 

Pan  piped  of  peace  the  perfect  praise 

In  his  melodious  measures ; 

He  led  the  folk  in  simple  ways 

To  relish  simple  pleasures ; 

There  was  no  fear 
Of  vengeance  near 
While  men  were  thus  enchanted, 
By  bugle  clear, 
By  clash  of  spear 
No  spirit  mild  was  daunted ; 
But  now,  through  all  the  livelong  year, 
By  war's  alarms  are  heart  and  ear 
And  thought  and  memory  haunted. 


[28] 


SONG 

1  HERE  is  song  for  the  hours  of  gladness, 

And  sweet  is  the  mirthful  strain ; 

There  is  song  for  the  hours  of  sadness, 

More  sweet  for  the  sense  of  pain. 

What  melody  hails  the  morrow 
That  brings  in  the  genial  light ; 

How  tender  the  notes  of  sorrow 
That  greet  the  coming  of  night! 

What  passionate,  amorous  story 

Do  the  voices  of  summer  sing ; 
To  what  anthem  of  praise  and  of  glory 

Do  the  tempests  of  winter  ring! 

For,  whether  of  triumph  telling, 

Or  it  tell  of  bitter  defeat, 
The  song  from  the  full  heart  welling 

To  another  heart  is  sweet. 

Then  what  if  the  springtime  linger? 

Or  what  if  the  night  be  long? 
There  is  always  a  song  for  the  singer, 

And  a  welcome  always  for  song. 


29 


TIDE   OF   SONG 

IT  flows  in  channel  wide, 

Fair,  sloping  banks  along, 
With  love  and  passion,  side  by  side, 

An  endless  tide  of  song; 
Its  source,  who  can  disclose, 

Who  find  its  fountain-head, 
Or  who,  from  human  knowledge,  knows 

How  its  deep  springs  are  fed. 

It  brings  from  ages  past, 

From  centuries  far  away, 
Dim  memories  of  ambitions  vast, 

Enlargement  and  decay ; 
With  grief  is  mingled  joy, 

What's  fair  with  what  is  bold, 
As  in  the  dark,  sad  tale  of  Troy 

Is  Helen's  beauty  told. 

As  where  a  river  flows 

Down  from  high  snow-clad  hills, 
Along  that  mighty  current  goes 

Rich  tribute  of  the  rills ; 
So  where  do  streams  of  thought 

And  feeling  surge  along, 
There,  too,  the  bounteous  flood  is  brought 

Of  tributary  song. 


[30] 


EBB   OF  SONG 

OOW  still  the  woods  are  in  this  burning  heat! 

So  still  the  poplar  trees 

They  turn  no  leaf  to  catch  the  idle  breeze, 
Nor  is  there  rustling  heard  where  oak  leaves  meet. 

How  silent  are  the  pine  trees  all  around! 

Their  tops  are  held  so  high 

We  hear  no  murmuring  as  the  winds  go  by, 
Of  whispered  secrets,  too,  we  catch  no  sound. 

The  woods  are  songless  as  in  winter  time, 

No  voice  of  singing  bird 

In  notes  of  untaught  melody  is  heard 
With  sound  of  falling  rivulet  to  chime. 

Ah  me!  these  lonesome  silences  that  brood 

On  thicket  and  on  bower, 

Of  song  left  empty  at  this  noontide  hour, 
Where  at  the  sunrise  Pan  in  rapture  stood 

And  listened  long  to  singing  blithe  and  gay, 
That  hailed  the  morning  light 
Over  the  eastern  hilltops  coming  bright ; 

Where,  too,  will  Pan  be  found  at  close  of  day. 

This  stillness  at  the  noon  of  summer  days 

Is  but  the  ebb  of  song 

That  will  at  eventime  again  be  strong, 
Will  charm  the  world  anew  with  flood  of  praise. 


31 


ENGLISH   SONG 

r~lOW  sweet  the  songs  were  sung 
In  our  dear  English  tongue, 

Now  many  outlived  centuries  ago, 
When  Beauty's  praise  was  rung 
From  the  lips  of  old  and  young, 

And  Beauty  proud  to  be  admired  so! 

These  songs  to  us  repeat 
The  pulse,  the  rhythmic  beat 

Of  love,  by  a  responsive  passion  fed; 
They  tell  in  numbers  sweet 
The  rapture,  how  complete, 

Of  two  fond  hearts  are  now  long  centuries  dead. 

How  far  outlives  their  praise 
That  beauty  and  those  bays, 

By  singers  honored  with  fidelity! 
What  thought  inspired  those  lays, 
So  steadfast  to  our  days, 

And  gives  to  love  an  immortality! 


[32] 


ELIZABETHAN   SONG 


THE 


men  who  sang  of  old  sang  from  the  heart 
Those  thoughts  that  moved  their  tuneful  souls 

to  song ; 

They  sang  not  for  display  of  studied  art, 
But  as  do  happy  birds,  all  summer  long, 
Sing  from  full-sounding  throats 
Melodious  notes 

That  blend  harmoniously  with  Nature's  voice, 
When  sound  of  running  rill 
Chimes  with  their  trill, — 
So  did  the  singers  of  that  earlier  day  rejoice. 

Then  was  of  English  song  the  morning  hour, 
The  world  was  waking  from  a  long  repose ; 
To  day  was  given  the  beauty  of  the  hour, 
Was  given  as  well  the  sweetness  of  the  rose; 

Then  was  that  eastern  sky 

Of  saffron  dye, 
And  poets  turned  their  faces  to  adore ; 

Then  did  the  singers  raise 

Their  songs  of  praise, 
Such  as  had  mortals  never  heard  before. 


[33] 


WHAT  WAKENS  SONG 

WHAT  is  it  wakens  Song 
That  long  has  dreamed 
Until  it  seemed 

To  oblivion  to  belong? 

Is  it  the  battle-cry, 

The  bells'  alarms, 

Loud  call  to  arms, 
Bold  challenge  and  reply? 

Is  it  hoarse  cannon's  roar, 

Rough  broken  rout, 

Proud  victor  shout 
When  is  the  battle  o'er? 

These  have  slight  force  to  break 

Strong  spell  of  sleep, 

Of  silence  deep, 
Bid  slumbering  Song  awake. 

Of  lighter  mood,  it  seems; — 

For  gentle  thought 

From  Fancy  caught 
Song  wakens  from  her  dreams. 


34 


STREAM   OF  SONG 

1  HE  stream  of  English  song 

Runs  with  unbroken  flow, 
In  freshet  pouring  full  along, 

In  drought  of  summer,  low; 
But  running  all  the  year 
With  current  pure  and  clear, 
It  brings  the  pulses  of  the  past  in  music  to  the  ear. 

The  songs  are  sung  today 

Were  sung  long  years  ago, 
Perchance  in  measure  not  so  gay, 

But  no  less  charming  so ; 
We  have  but  changed  the  score 
From  what  it  was  before ; 

Our  songs  are  just  the  same  in  thought  as  were 
the  songs  of  yore. 

So  will  that  stream  flow  on, 

A  future  age  to  bless, 
With  tender  thought  for  ages  gone, 

For  vanished  loveliness. 
So  may  it  ever  be 
Until  it  meets  the  sea, 
A  source  of  pure  delight  to  all  as  it  has  been  to  me. 


[35] 


WORTH   OF   SONG 

L-/ET  the  measure  of  my  verse 
From  the  heart  its  music  borrow, 

Whether  it  may  joys  rehearse 
Or  may  sound  a  note  of  sorrow ; 

All  the  worth  and  power  of  song 

To  its  truthfulness  belong ; 
Only  let  its  numbers  be 
With  our  lives  in  harmony ; 

Be  these  better  then  or  worse, 

Song  will  brighter  make  the  morrow. 

Let  us  sing  of  what  is  fair, 

What  is  glorious  in  story, 
Of  what  deeds  the  world  may  care 

To  have  kept  traditions  hoary ; 
Only  let  us  sing  them  so 
They  with  wonted  life  may  glow, 

That  a  later  age  may  feel 

What  do  ages  past  reveal, 
Hearts  of  men  be  kept  aware 

How  undimmed  is  blaze  of  glory. 


36] 


POET'S   CORNER 

A  LITTLE  nook 

Outside  the  current  of  the  stream, 
Where  lie  the  waters  of  the  brook 

At  rest,  and  dream 
Of  daffodils  upon  the  shore, 
Narcissus  at  the  fount  once  more, 
Careless  of  danger,  leaning  o'er; — 

Fondly  they  seem 
Into  those  quiet  depths  to  look, 

With  joy  supreme. 

The  poet  there 

Finds  for  himself  a  pleasant  place, 
The  pictured  world  is  just  as  fair 

And  full  of  grace: — 
There  are  the  waters, — everything, 
Clouds  in  the  sky,  birds  on  the  wing, 
In  silence  all,  as  listening 

To  Summer's  pace, 
While  sky,  and  brook,  and  meadow  wear 

A  smiling  face. 


[37] 


GARDEN   OF   SONG 


How 


many  Eastern  bards  have  sung 
In  softest  phrase  of  Eastern  tongue 
Full  glories  of  a  garden  placed 
Amid  the  desert's  boundless  waste! 
There  in  the  joy  of  spring  it  lies 
Beneath  fond  smile  of  tender  skies 
An  unforbidden  Paradise. 

There  peace  and  happiness  are  found 
While  death  and  silence  reign  around, 
And  there  are  sweetest  numbers  heard, 
Sung  by  the  rill  and  by  the  bird ; 

But  who  the  thither  way  has  learned, 
The  beauty  of  that  spot  discerned, 
Has  never  o'er  the  sands  returned. 

'Tis  not  for  human  skill  to  trace 
The  pathway  to  that  magic  place ; 
But  who  with  patience  listens  long 
Will  bear  the  music  of  that  song 
Ring  in  the  winter  of  the  year, 
Ring  in  the  desert  lone  and  drear, 
A  sweet  voice  singing,  low  but  clear. 


[38] 


EVOLUTION   OF   SONG 

F  AR  back  in  the  unknown 
When  the  Lord  God  was  alone, 
No  worlds  before  His  face, 
There  came  a  thought  of  grace, 
First-born  of  all  its  own, — 
That  thought  itself  was  Space. 

Then  through  the  Oversoul 
Rose  thought  from  goal  to  goal, 
Striving  by  steps  to  climb 
To  heights  yet  more  sublime, 
Whence  it  might  view  the  whole,— 
Its  steps  the  birth  of  Time. 

Then  was  the  birth  of  Song 
That  ran  with  Time  along 

Toward  far  Eternity 

Until  it  came  to  be 
An  inspiration  strong, 

Inspiring  even  me. 


[39] 


REMEMBERED  SONG 

IN  idleness  of  summer's  slow-paced  days, 

When  long  the  shadow  stays, 
As  it  would  gladly  loiter  here  always 

In  one  unending  noon, 
The  song-sparrow  repeats  his  gladsome  tune 

In  praise  of  leafy  June. 

The  boy  that  all  the  morning  through  has  played 

Now  rests  him  in  the  shade 
By  full-leafed  maples  on  the  greensward  made ; 

He  listens  to  that  song 
Kept  up  still,  quiet  hour  of  noontide  long, — 

Full-throated  strain  and  strong. 

How  will  this  melody  in  later  years 

Bring  back  with  starting  tears 
The  world  of  summer  as  it  now  appears 

To  this  light-hearted  lad ; 
And,  though  his  days  of  care  and  toil  be  sad, 

Make  him  for  childhood  glad! 

Ah,  wondrous  magic  of  that  melody, 

Unstudied  song  and  free, 
As  it  is  often  now  recalled  by  me, — 

A  song  bird's  simple  strain 
That  long  in  fondest  memory  has  lain, 

And  I'm  a  boy  again! 


40 


LAND  OF  SONG 

JL/AND  of  the  myrtle  and  the  vine, 

Of  pastured  slopes  with  verdure  clad, 
Replete  with  garlands  and  with  wine 

To  make  the  heart  of  minstrel  glad; — 
Land  of  the  soft,  warm  summer  sky, 

To  which  earth's  peace  and  rest  belong, 
Among  whose  hills  and  valleys  lie 

Clear  fountains  and  bright  rills  of  song  ;- 
Thou  art  the  home  of  melody, 
Dost  hold  my  heart  in  fealty. 

Land  of  the  sturdy  oak  and  pine, 

Of  rugged  steep  and  broken  braes, 
Through  all  the  years  of  boyhood  mine, 

Remembered  well  in  later  days; — 
Land  of  the  wintry  cloud  and  snow, 

Whose  biting  blasts  are  rude  and  strong, 
That  from  the  North,  triumphant,  blow 

Rough  strains  of  an  heroic  song ; — 
Thou,  too,  dear  land,  hast  charm  for  me 
That  I  should  sing  in  praise  of  thee. 


[41] 


SONG'S   GOLDEN   CROWN 

VJREECE  wears  with  pride  upon  her  radiant  brow 

Unequalled  glory  of  the  Parthenon, 
Though  it  be  only  broken  ruin  now, 

Still  it  proclaims  renown  of  ages  gone ; 
Wide  scattered  fragments  of  that  sculptured  frieze, 

Strong  pillared  walls — deep  architrave  of  stone — 
Bear  witness  to  the  faith  that  fashioned  these, 

Show  what  of  art  was  to  the  builders  known. 

They  were  the  workmen  who  in  patience  wrought 

What  to  their  vision  Pallas  had  made  clear, 
What  was  their  aspiration,  what  their  thought, 

We  find  upon  the  stone  recorded  here ; — 
We  see  bright  torches  to  Eleusis  brought, 

The  hymns  of  youths  and  maidens  still  we  hear, 
Deep  reverence  to  divinity  is  taught, 

To  truth  revealed,  obedience  severe. 

But  though  the  virgin  goddess  of  that  fane 

Stood  faithful  sentinel  above  her  town, 
The  power  of  her  divinity  was  vain 

To  shield  from  ruthless  hand  her  old  renown ; 
Time,  too,  has  worn  and  blurred  with  deepening 
stain 

What  pious  craftsmen  would  have  handed  down, 
But  through  the  Muses'  immemorial  reign 

Has    Hellas    worn,    undimmed,    song's    golden 
crown. 


42 


NATURE   WORSHIP 

1  HERE  is  an  early  hour  of  the  day, 
An  hour  before  the  coming  of  the  sun, 

When  all  the  copses  are  with  singing  gay, — 
The  notes  are  many,  but  the  song  is  one ; — 

A  song  of  greeting  to  the  eastern  grey, 

Of  adoration  which  the  singers  pay 

Unto  the  royal  lord  of  day  before  the  day 's  begun. 

So  may  I  from  deep,  restful  slumber  wake, 
And  so  begin  the  day  with  cheerful  song, 

Soon  as  o'er  eastern  hills  the  morn  shall  break ; 
And  let  me  help  to  swell  that  current  strong 

Of  melody  the  artless  warblers  make 

From  their  o'erbrimming  gladness,  for  the  sake 
Of  life  and  of  what  blesses  life,  however  short  or 
long. 

And  may  the  closing  hymn  of  worship  be 

That  softly  lapsing  song  the  wood  thrush  trills, 
Low  cadenced  music  of  that  melody 

Which  through  life's  summer  field  and  forest 

fills; 

And  at  life's  twilight  hour  may  I  see, 
Drawn  as  night's  richly-broidered  drapery, 

Bright  sunset-painted  clouds  above  deep-shad- 
owed western  hills. 


43 


IN   NATURE'S  SANCTUARY 

W  HO  finds  not  in  the  lonely  wood, 

Within  the  shadows  of  the  pine, 
Those  solemn  mysteries  that  brood 

About  the  minster's  holy  shrine ; — 
Who  feels  not  in  that  loneliness 

Companionship  of  angels  near, 
Will  miss  the  sweetest  charms  that  bless 

Our  pilgrimage  of  duty  here, — 
Will  stand  outside  the  brotherhood 

That  shares  the  human  and  divine. 

Who  hears  not  in  the  winds  that  steal 

Through  shadowy  arches  far  and  dim, 
The  dying  note  of  organ  peal, 

Low  cadence  of  a  vesper  hymn; — 
Who  heeds  not  the  faint  breath  that  stirs 

The  bough  that  canopies  his  head, 
The  cross-tipped  pinnacles  of  firs, 

That  bring  the  incense  lilies  shed ; — 
Alas!  the  oracles  reveal 

None  of  their  mysteries  to  him! 


44 


MAKING   OF   SONG 

JL\  BOY,  impatient  of  the  Spring, 
Long  by  the  brookside  lingering 

As  if  entranced,  delaying  there 
To  hear  the  blackbirds  loudly  sing, 

To  watch  the  willows  growing  fair, 
Anemones  at  blossoming ; — 

The  boy,  of  melody  aware, 

As  bird  or  spring  is  free  from  care. 

The  water  runs  by  side  of  him, 
The  channel  filling  to  the  brim, 

It  babbles  broken  rocks  among, 
Of  shadows  deep,  of  sunlight  dim, 

Where  by  the  sturdy  oak  is  flung 
Across  the  pool  a  giant  limb ; — 

Those  liquid  notes,  from  Nature's  tongue, 

Chime  with  loud  song  by  blackbirds  sung. 

And  this  is  how  the  boy  will  learn 
Himself  to  sing  his  song  in  turn, 

When  he  the  magic  skill  has  caught 
From  Nature,  seeming  mistress  stern, 

To  wed  her  feeling  with  his  thought 
As  bird  note  chimes  with  singing  burn ; — 

Of  strains  from  woods  and  waters  brought 

Are  measures  most  melodious  wrought. 


45 


TO  THE   MUSE 

VJIFT  of  Poesy  we  praise 
In  our  lays 

Of  an  off-hand,  careless  measure, 
Neither  to  the  gracious  Muse 
Do  refuse 

Such  return  as  giveth  pleasure ; 

By  the  waters  of  the  rill, 
Try  our  skill 

With  the  ripples  and  the  rushes; 
Strive  to  reproduce  the  notes 
From  the  throats 

Of  tuneful  bobolinks  and  thrushes. 

Unto  Erato  belong 
Gifts  of  song 

Woven  of  our  brightest  fancies, 
And  the  singer  well  may  be 
Glad  if  he 

Win  but  swiftest  of  her  glances. 


46 


OUR   LEADER 

JL/OVE  leads  my  song  and  love  that  song  doth  end, 
To  praise  of  love  my  musing  fancies  tend ; 

Did  not  love  call 

They  would  not  go  at  all, 
Nor  should  I  care  one  anxious  thought  to  send 
After  an  absent  friend. 

Love  is  the  prompter  of  our  hearts  to  sing, 
He  guides  the  ringers  o'er  the  trembling  string ; 

He  has  the  skill 

To  wield  the  poet's  quill, 
And  to  the  cadenced  verse  such  music  bring, 
Therein  his  praises  ring. 

And  shall  not  Love,  then,  in  our  song  avail 
Of  praises  due  to  have  the  honest  tale, 

And  shall  not  we 

Enroll  ourselves  to  be 
Most  loyal  in  his  service, — never  fail 
Where  honor  should  prevail  ? 


47 


HERALDS   OF   DAY 

1  HE  robin  in  the  orchard  tree, 

The  lark  up  in  the  sky, 
The  morning  on  the  eastern  crest 

Lists  to  their  matin  song ; — 
The  waters,  sleeping  silently, 

In  dreams  unbroken  lie, 
With  lilies  folded  to  their  breast, 

For  day  have  waited  long. 

Sweet  charm  of  music  in  the  air 

And  in  the  heavens  above, 
Sweet  silence  resting  on  the  streams 

And  on  the  wooded  hills ; 
The  world  is  listening  everywhere, 

With  tenderness  of  love, 
For  song  that  wakes  from  pleasant  dreams 

And  heart  of  Nature  fills. 

O  robin  in  the  orchard  tree, 

O  lark  up  in  the  sky, 
Before  the  sun  is  on  the  hill 

Or  on  the  pond  below ; 
You  sing  a  happy  song  to  me, 

Whose  feeble  voice  will  try 
To  practise  those  sweet  notes  that  thrill 

My  soul  with  beauty  so. 


48 


MUSES 

I  E  maidens  of  the  pure  Castalian  spring, 
Whose  youth,  unfading,  in  the  pool  below 
Is  seen  reflected  in  the  tender  glow 
Of  rapture  spiritual  with  which  you  sing 
Your  heart's  devotion  so ; — 

Your  fond  devotion  to  that  gentle  art, 

Which  with  its  mild  persuasion  leads  the  way, 
Our  timid  aspirations  would  essay 

From  beaten  track  of  life  and  thought  apart 
In  fields  unreal  to  stray; 

How  do  those  meadows,  ever  growing  green, 

And  thickly  sprinkled  with  those  flowers  bright 
As  stars  of  heaven  are  in  the  dewy  night, 

From  dust  and  din  of  this  familiar  scene 
Our  tired  feet  invite! 

Thither  our  steps  shall  tend, — we  may  not  come 
Into  the  presence  of  these  maids  divine, 
Before  their  gracious  sovereignty  incline, 

Yet,  at  a  distance,  reverently  dumb, 
Will  venerate  their  shrine. 


49 


THE   SACRED   WELL 

15  Y  what  becoming  rite, 

What  offering 

That  we  may  bring, 
Shall  we  at  length  requite 

The  debt  we  owe 

To  streams  that  flow 
Down  from  Parnassan  height? 

What  litany  of  praise 

Will  poet  sing 

To  that  fair  spring 
That  charmed  Narcissus*  gaze, 

That  won  the  youth 

By  perfect  truth 
Of  what  its  glass  repays? 

How  may  the  singer  tell 

Of  Helicon, 

Where,  in  years  gone, 
Did  gracious  Muses  dwell, 

Whose  memory 

Makes  that  to  be 
E'en  yet  a  sacred  well? 


[50] 


WHEN   LIFE   WAS  YOUNG 

W  HEN  life  was  young,  the  day  went  by 

As  goes  the  wayward  butterfly, 

One  moment  stayed  by  kingcup  bright, 

Next  moment  dancing  in  the  light, 

With  not  the  shadow  of  a  care 

Which  way  the  restless  feet  should  fare, 

For  over  every  path  was  flung 

Hope's  rainbow  arch  when  life  was  young. 

When  life  was  young,  the  world  was  new 

And  fresh  as  violets  bathed  in  dew ; 

It  had  not  lost  the  power  to  please 

With  child-bewitching  mysteries; 

Around  the  idly-straying  feet 

The  wild  flowers  shed  a  fragrance  sweet, 

And  lily  bells  were  softly  rung 

To  Fancy's  ear  when  life  was  young. 

When  life  was  young,  the  heart  was  stirred 
By  every  note  of  singing  bird; 
It  did  not  seem  to  listening  boy 
There  could  be  room  for  so  much  joy, 
His  heart  was  brimming  so  to  hear 
Brown  thrushes  sing  their  carol  clear ; 
For  thus  it  seemed  those  songs  were  sung 
For  his  delight  when  life  was  young. 


51 


FOLLOWING 

FOLLOW  whither  Fancy  leads, 

With  the  twittering  of  the  swallow, 
Rambling  through  the  grassy  meads, 
Through  the  brambles  and  the  weeds, 
Scent  of  hidden  blossom  follow ; 
Follow  waters  of  the  rill 
Slipping  softly  down  the  hill, 
Follow  clatter  of  the  mill, 
Through  the  brakes  and  bushes,  till 
You  have  come  to  sighing  reeds, 
Wind-swept  in  a  lonely  hollow. 

Going,  you  shall  have  the  bird, 

Singing  linnet,  for  your  fellow, 
Have  beside  you  waters  heard, 
To  a  lively  measure  stirred, 

Rippling  over  rock  and  shallow ; 
You  shall  have  along  the  way 
Company  that's  light  and  gay, 
Linnet  singing  all  the  day 
His  delightful  roundelay, 
Song  of  love  with  not  a  word, 
Only  music  sweet  and  mellow. 


52 


SONG  OF   GLADNESS 

A.  SONG  of  gladness  on  the  morning  air, 
Of  melody  from  hedgerow,  field  and  wood; 

Loud  song  of  joy,  repeated  everywhere 

By  wakened  birds  to  waken  drowsy  brood; — 

A  song  to  greet  the  day 

At  early  eastern  gray, 

To  cheer  the  place  that  else  were  solitude. 

A  song  of  gladness  in  the  hearts  of  men, 
Of  sweet  contentment  in  their  happy  lot, 

Sung  over  in  those  quiet  hours  when 
Are  mercies  counted,  miseries  forgot ; — 

Low  song  of  genial  mirth, 

Sung  at  the  cottage  hearth, 

Where  dwelleth  Peace  that  Luxury  knoweth  not. 

A  song  of  gladness,  with  no  note  of  pain, 
No  mournful  cadence  in  the  lilting  line, 

No  cry  of  anguish  forming  its  refrain, 
Let  truth  and  melody  therein  combine ; — 

Let  there  no  sadness  be, 

No  deep  despondency, 

Nor  any  trace  of  grief  in  song  of  mine. 


53] 


SONG'S   PROVINCE 

1  HE  plowboy  at  his  plow, 

Fair  spinner  at  her  wheel, 
The  bold  adventurer  at  the  prow 

Of  his  adventurous  keel — 
These  are  bright  themes  of  song 

Is  worthy  to  be  sung 
In  smoothest  measures  that  belong 

To  our  dear  English  tongue. 

Songs  for  the  rich  and  poor, 

The  highest  and  the  least, 
For  gossips  at  the  cottage  door, 

For  princes  at  the  feast ; — 
Songs  that  may  move  the  thought, 

May  move  the  heart  to  love 
By  which  to  human  need  is  brought 

Help  from  the  Strength  above. 

Too  long  the  singer's  voice 

Has  sung  at  Fame's  behest, 
Now  should  it  help  the  world  rejoice 

In  what  is  truly  best ; 
No  more  should  Music  swell 

The  wonted  praise  of  Might, 
And  pen  of  poet  now  should  tell 

The  glory  of  the  Right. 


[54] 


THE   SINGER'S  WAGE 

W  HAT  has  the  singer  to  count  for  his  gains, 

His  singing  what  profit  has  brought  him? 
Or  what  can  he  show  for  the  labor  and  pains 
He  has  taken  to  render  those  simple  strains 
The  wildwood  warbler  has  taught  him? 

The  world  its  small  wage  does  how  grudgingly  pay, 

Or  oftener  yet  refuses! 

It  would  hire  this  work  to  be  done  by  the  day, 
Or  with  a  gratuity  send  on  his  way 

Each  vagabond  child  of  the  Muses. 

It  matters  but  little — the  world's  cold  sneer — 

In  a  world  of  his  own  he  rejoices; 
The  singer  keeps  on  with  his  notes  full  of  cheer, 
In  full  hope  that  some  heart  may  gratefully  hear 

Them  resung  by  more  musical  voices. 

The  singer, — he  has  but  an  hour  or  two 

To  devote  to  his  favorite  folly; 
But  if  he  can  only  spend  them  with  you, 
Dear  Reader,  patiently  following  through, 

He  will  think  that  his  life  has  been  jolly. 


[55 


IN   MINOR   KEY 

IHROUGH  the  grand  symphony 
Of  Nature's  voices  in  the  universe, 

One  hears  a  melody 

Sung  in  a  minor  key, 
As  if  it  would  heart  sufferings  rehearse. 

'Tis  borne  on  wind  that  goes 
Where'er  it  listeth,  over  land  or  sea, 

Drifting  the  arctic  snows, 

Bringing  the  scent  that  blows 
To  ships  becalmed  off  shores  of  Araby. 

•    A  music  even  lower 

Haunts  deep  recesses  of  the  lonely  wood, 

Its  notes  of  magic  pour 

Showers  of  feeling  o'er 
Spirits  responsive  unto  solitude. 

Not  in  the  deafening  sound 
Of  surges  beating  on  a  rocky  shore, 

But  in  the  depths  profound 

Of  spirit  there  abound 
Currents  of  thought  that  move  the  soul  yet  more. 


[56] 


PRIMEVAL   SONG 

IN  what  fair  region,  in  what  sunny  clime 

And  in  what  happy  time, 
What  Golden  Age  of  poesy  on  earth, 

Has  minstrel  had  his  birth, 

Who,  glorying  in  Apollo's  sacred  bays, 

Has  sung  of  Love  the  praise, 
As  in  the  summer  evening's  holy  hush 

Has  sung  the  hermit  thrush? 

Words  of  the  singer's  song  now  serve  as  well 

The  price  of  goods  to  tell, 
To  tell  the  secrets  of  the  shop  and  mart, 

As  well  as  of  the  heart ; 

But  singing  bird  with  notes  of  feeling  fills 

The  tender,  quavering  trills, 
And  with  a  cadence  soft  as  brooklet  flows, 

Brings  her  song  to  its  close. 

Which  was  the  first  to  sing,  which  first  was  heard, 

The  minstrel  or  the  bird? 
We  cannot  tell,  but  at  this  twilight  hour 

We  own  the  thrush's  power. 


57 


THE  SONG-MASTER 

1  O  whom  shall  magic  gift  belong, 

That  he  may  gain  the  mastery 
Over  mighty  floods  of  song, 
Flowing  through  the  world,  along 
Far  lines  of  human  history? 

Who  today  will  be  so  bold 

That  he  dare  take  Apollo's  lyre, 
Wake  those  strings  to  strains  of  old, 
Send  along  the  quivering  gold 
Some  ardor  of  the  ancient  fire? 

Nevermore  the  world  shall  hear 

What  songs  the  earlier  ages  heard ; 
Voice  of  Muse,  divinely  clear, 
Ringing  to  enchanted  ear ; — 
The  music  wedded  to  the  word. 

Not  for  us  nor  for  these  days 

Is  there  sung  a  strain  that's  new, 
A  song  that  sings  of  Song  the  praise, 
For  which  the  world  its  hurry  stays 
And  listens  all  the  singing  through. 


[58] 


SONG  HUNTEk 

W  ILD  Navajo,  in  his  pursuit  of  song, 
Went  in  his  drifting  boat  down  to  the  sea; 

The  reeds  sang  softly  as  he  moved  along, 

The  world  seemed  just  as  glad  as  world  could  be. 

Among  tall  cottonwoods  he  heard  the  breeze 
Delay  a  while  with  gentle  whisperings, 

And  in  low  murmured  melody  of  these 

Were  wakened  memories  of  long-lost  things. 

He  saw  the  water  tarry  for  a  time, 
In  friendly  spirit  with  the  rushes  stay; 

He  realized  for  rhythm  and  for  rhyme 
Must  singer  yield  some  portion  of  his  day. 

But  when  he  came  to  where  the  shore  was  one, 
The  river  broadening  out  into  a  sea, 

He  knew,  forsooth,  the  song  could  not  be  done, 
Long  as  there  were  shores  twain  to  memory; 

Long  as  there  was  a  past  from  which  he  drew 
Notes  that  were  charming  to  his  youthful  ear; 

Long  as  a  future  offered  something  new, 
Some  melody  replete  with  hopeful  cheer. 


59 


SONG  MYTH 

J.  HE  Pima  singer,  drifting  down  the  stream, 
Charmed  with  the  songs  he  heard  from  either 

shore, 

Went  swiftly  onward  as  borne  in  a  dream, 
Until  at  length  he  would  return  once  more. 

Then  was  he  forced  to  stem  a  stronger  tide 

Than  dipping  paddle,  plied  with  frequent  stroke, 

Could  overcome,  however  hard  he  tried, 
However  many  gods  did  he  invoke. 

Still  drifting  down,  still  nearer  to  the  sea, 

From  home  and  kindred  more  and  more  remote, 

He  felt  the  ocean's  dread  immensity, 

Saw  foaming  billows  threaten  him  and  boat. 

Then  came  four  sunbeams,  as  a  braided  strand 
Of  golden  threads  that  wove  a  cable  strong ; 

They  stretched  a  line  of  light  across  the  sand, 
And  safely  towed  the  singer's  boat  along. 

So  is  it  when  the  poet  strives  in  vain 

For  higher  level  than  our  footsteps  know, 

His  song  to  raise  by  a  yet  loftier  strain, 

Will  corded  sunbeams  take  his  craft  in  tow. 


60 


OLD-TIME   SONG 

IT  has  been  sung  through  many,  many  ages, 

A  song  of  feeling,  never  growing  old; 
It  has  been  read  with  tears,  on  faded  pages, 

Sweet  song  of  deep  affection  never  told; 
How  has  it  found  in  heart  of  every  hearer 

A  chord  responsive  to  its  tender  strain, 
Its  softened  cadences  to  memory  dearer, 

Because  of  waking  Love  to  life  again. 

An  old-time  song  it  is,  of  quaint  old  verses, 

Joined  to  a  melody  of  simple  score; 
A  song  of  love,  whose  every  line  rehearses 

What  burden  in  the  past  some  fond  heart  bore; 
Still  does  the  pathos  of  that  ancient  ditty 

Move  men  as  it  was  wont  in  former  years; 
It  fills  the  soul  with  sentiments  of  pity, 

And  eyes  of  listeners  are  filled  with  tears. 

The  more  this  pleases  me  because  its  measure 

Is  linked  with  memory  of  childhood  days, 
When  it  was  oft  repeated  for  my  pleasure, 

Until  its  haunting  music  with  me  stays; 
It  brings  to  mind  deep  tones  of  tender  feeling, 

Were  heard  from  lips  that  have  been  silent  long, 
Into  my  soul  blest  benediction  stealing 

From  notes  concordant  of  an  old-time  song. 


61 


SONG-MAKING 

JDY  winding  ways 

That  weave  unpatterned  maze, 

By  growing  grasses  spread, 

Made  soft  to  silent  tread, 

With  leafage  overhead 
To  shield  from  rays 
Of  bright  midsummer  days, 
The  idle  singer  strays 

These  solitary-crested  hills  along, 

And  meditates  the  measure  of  a  song. 

He  hears  the  breeze 
Complaining  from  the  trees ; 

He  hears  the  noisy  rills 

Go  laughing  down  the  hills ; 

The  woodland  music  fills 
His  soul  with  these 
Responsive  harmonies 
That  run  to  melodies, 

And  with  them  run  his  happy  thoughts  along 

To  join  the  lilting  numbers  in  a  song. 


62] 


SUNRISE   SONGS 

A.T  the  hour  of  prime 
In  the  early  summer  time, 
The  wood  thrush  sings 
Its  matin  song  that  rings 
Harmonious  with  our  moods 
as  bells  of  Sabbath  chime. 

Then  the  stars  of  night, 
Having  faded  from  our  sight, 

Mist  veils  below 

Are  gilded  with  a  glow 
From  Day's  uplifted  torch 
of  saffron-colored  light. 

With  the  morning  wake 

In  thicket  and  in  brake 
Broods  God  hath  kept 
In  safety  while  they  slept, 

Joining  now  the  tuneful  choir 
their  hymn  of  praise  to  make. 

So  the  men  of  old 

Were  enraptured  to  behold 

The  rising  sun, 

And  they  hailed  it,  every  one, 
As  worthy  of  their  worship, 
symbolized  by  yellow  gold. 


63 


SONG   OF   MEMORY 

JVlUSIC  coming  o'er  the  sea 

As  of  Sirens  singing, 
Wakens  many  a  memory 
Of  those  joys  that  used  to  be 
So  large  a  part  of  life  to  me ; — 
Thoughts  of  boyhood  bringing, 
And  to  life's  matins  ringing. 

Ay,  this  music  brings  to  mind 

Childhood's  pleasant  dreaming,- 
Visions  we  have  left  behind, 
Longings  breathed  unto  the  wind, 
Hopes  we  never  were  to  find, 
All  our  loss  redeeming 
With  only  magic  seeming. 

Song  from  out  the  past  we  hear 

With  most  pleasing  sorrow, 
Sweetly  falling  on  the  ear, 
Ringing  bells  of  memory  clear, 
So  that  gathering  shades  appear 
Charmed  silences  to  borrow 
From  life's  reflective  morrow. 


64 


LOVE,   THE   CHORISTER 

SlNGING  at  the  gates  of  day, 
Welcoming  the  morning  light 

In  a  merry  roundelay 

Sung  with  gladsome  voice,  and  gay 
As  the  song  of  happy  sprite, 

Sings  the  thrush  its  matin  song 

Of  praises  that  to  life  belong. 

Within  the  region  of  the  cloud, 

Where  this  appears  as  bank  of  snow, 
The  lark  sings  morning's  praise  so  loud 
That  linnets  of  the  hedge  are  proud 

To  hear  their  faint  notes  echoing  so ; — 
To  all  the  hedgerow  birds  astir 
Is  given  the  lark,  their  chorister. 

When  Love  within  the  heart  first  springs 

To  life  at  sight  of  what  is  fair, 
He  flutters  upward  on  his  wings 
And,  as  the  lark,  divinely  sings 

The  glory  of  existence  there, — 
A  chorister  to  all  who  praise 
In  song  Love's  early-summer  days. 


65 


UNDERTONES 

VT  HERE  runs  the  river  from  the  mill, 

Adown  a  channel  rough  with  stone, 
The  murmurings  of  its  ripples  fill 
This  valley,  spread  from  hill  to  hill, 
With  measured  music  of  their  own, 
Sung  in  a  low,  sweet  undertone. 

Where  chirps  the  cricket  in  the  grass 

For  his  own  pleasure,  it  appears, 
How  oft  unheeding  do  we  pass 
That  minstrel's  hermitage,  alas! 
Our  mind  so  occupied  with  fears, 
The  song  rings  silent  to  our  ears! 

It  needs  but  that  our  thought  should  be 

FVom  matters  too  engrossing  won, 
That  beauty  in  the  world  we  see, 
And  hear  in  Nature's  minstrelsy 
A  song  was  hitherto  unknown, 
Sung  in  a  low,  sweet  undertone. 


[66 


MODERN   MUSES 

OINGING  aye  of  love  and  beauty, 

Careless  aye  of  life  and  duty, 
Singing  in  a  merry  measure 
For  an  idle  hour's  pleasure, 

Happy  Muses, 

Whom  divine  Apollo  chooses. 

Silent  now  the  pipes  Pandean, 

Ended  now  the  hymn  and  paean; 
Empty  now  the  stage  before  us, 
Vanished  are  the  mimes  and  chorus ; 

Hushed  the  singing, 

Once  the  joy  of  Bacchus  bringing. 

Ye  have  fled  Pierian  fountain, 

Fled  the  rough  Parnassan  mountain ; 
Ye  are  now  the  living  voices 
Wherein  Nature's  heart  rejoices; 

Haunting  arches 

Under  whispering  pines  and  larches. 


[67] 


SONG   OF   TODAY 

Jt>ARDS  sang  in  days  of  old 
Their  songs  in  praise  of  wine ; 

Then  were  the  charms  of  beauty  told 
In  strains  that  were  divine ; 

Then  had  they  melody  of  song 

Heard  by  the  river-side  along, 

Where  reeds  were  pliant,  breezes  strong, 
Had  sense  of  hearing  fine. 

Then  were  the  Muses  kind 

To  give  approval  clear 
To  what  was  pleasing  to  the  mind, 

Harmonious  to  the  ear; 
To  loving  thought  for  absent  one, 
To  deed  of  kindness  promptly  done, 
Or  victory  by  valor  won, — 

The  pasan  and  the  cheer. 

We  sing  in  later  days 

Themes  that  were  sung  of  old, 
Of  beauty  and  of  love  the  praise 

Above  the  praise  of  gold; 
No  matter  if  it  all  appears 
As  folly  unto  modern  ears, 
Melpomene,  with  smiling,  cheers 

And  bids  our  hearts  be  bold. 


68 


SILENCED  SONG 

J\  ROUND  Pierian  spring  still  grows 
And  blossoms  fair  the  blushing  rose ; 
Its  fragrance  now  is  just  as  sweet 
As  when  the  Muses  came  to  greet, — 
To  watch  the  crimson  buds  unclose 
With  songs  of  joy,  with  dancing  feet. 

The  sunshine  is  as  bright  today, 

The  song  of  birds  is  just  as  gay 

As  when  this  chimed  with  minstrel  song, 
Fair  shores  of  ancient  Greece  along, — 

When  singer's  brow  was  crowned  with  bay, 
His  praises  echoed  by  the  throng. 

Now  shadows  sleep  as  sweetly  on 
Green-mantled  slopes  of  Helicon, 
And  down  the  rugged,  broken  hill 
Comes,  laughing  loud,  the  merry  rill; — 
The  melody  of  ages  gone 

Unto  the  world  is  ringing  still. 

It  is  not  there  is  less  of  cheer 

In  sounds  of  nature  that  we  hear, 

The  same  sweet  strains  of  music  come 
In  song  of  bird,  in  wild  bee's  hum, 
But  for  them  we  have  not  the  ear, 
The  soul  is  dead,  the  lips  are  dumb. 


[69] 


THE   CAGED   BIRD 

1  OOR  bird,  though  taught  to  sing 

So  blithely  gay, 
Untaught  the  use  of  wing 
To  fly  away ; 

How  does  one  pity  thee, 
Watching  thy  fellows,  free, 
Out  on  the  blossoming  lea! — 
With  song  the  meadows  ring 
The  livelong  day. 

Within  thy  prison  walls, 

Though  gilded  fair, 
No  summer  sunshine  falls 
Through  boundless  air ; 
The  swallow  in  his  flight 
Goes  as  a  flash  of  light, 
Far  out  beyond  thy  sight, — 
And  song  of  blackbird  calls 
Thee,  over  there. 


[70] 


SONG-HAUNTED 


S 


ONG-HAUNTED  were  the  wooded  hills, 

By  fabled  centaurs  dwelt  upon, 
And  musical  the  mountain  rills 

That  fed  the  springs  of  Helicon; 
The  pine  tops  murmured  to  the  breeze 
That  lingered  with  the  poplar  trees, 

And  while  the  leaves  were  mutely  still, 
Sang  on  sweet- voiced  Pierides. 

Song-haunted  were  the  groves  of  oak, 

Dim  with  Druidic  mysteries, 
Upon  whose  mood  of  silence  broke 

Sad  drapas  of  the  Northern  seas; 
There  Mimir's  well-spring,  glacier-born, 
Gave  melody  to  hunters'  horn, 

And  there  the  voice  of  Bragi  spoke 
Decrees  of  wise,  prophetic  Norn. 

Song-haunted  is  our  world  today, 
With  blended  strains  of  music  past, 

With  Grecian  lyric,  light  and  gay, 

The  old  Norse  war-songs,  loud  and  vast; 

No  lack  of  song  the  world  shall  know, 

From  mingled  notes  of  joy  and  woe, 
Their  melting  harmonies  shall  stay 

And  let  the  clashing  discords  go. 


71 


AN   IDLE   SONG 

/\N  idle  song  to  fill  an  idle  hour, 

It  makes  a  pastime  for  the  summer's  day, 
Or  when  with  threatened  snow  the  heavens  lower, 
Dull  winter's  weariness  it  whiles  away ; 

The  singer's  artless  lay, 
Free  from  all  cares  that  to  our  lives  belong, 

Makes  every  season  gay 
With  merry  music  of  an  idle  song. 

As  sunbeams  bursting  through  a  passing  shower 
So  singing  fills  the  saddened  heart  with  cheer, 
To  love's  fond  smiling  gives  its  magic  power 
As  gives  that  smile  its  brightness  to  the  tear; 

For  sorrowing  souls  to  hear, 
When  life  is  empty  and  its  hours  are  long, 

The  melody  is  dear 
Although  it  be  naught  but  an  idle  song. 

An  idle  song!  but  shall  the  singer  cease, 

Because  so  few  may  care  to  hear  him  sing? 
Will  mountain  streamlet  hold  its  way  in  peace, 
If  I  be  not  beside  it  in  the  spring? 

Does  bluebird  rest  her  wing? 
Ask  blackbirds  when  they  come, — a  merry  throng, 

Do  they  neglect  to  bring 
Their  humanly-uncared-for  idle  song? 


[72 


SONG-SURVIVAL 

PERCHANCE  Apollo's  gift  of  song, 

Bestowed  so  graciously  of  old, 
Has  been  neglected  now  so  long 
The  god  his  favor  would  withhold ; 
No  more  to  earth  his  music  bring, 
No  more  inspire  the  bard  to  sing 
What  praises  unto  him  belong, 

Whose  altars  are  now  bare  and  cold. 

It  may  be  that  the  Muses  haunt 

No  more  the  crystal-pure  spring 
Of  Helicon ; — no  longer  chant 

The  hymns  it  was  their  wont  to  sing ; 
The  choral  dance  may  weave  no  more 
As  they  were  wont  to  dance  of  yore ; 
May  have  forgotten  to  descant 

High  praise  of  Song's  immortal  king. 

But  still  without  the  draught  of  wine 

That  once  was  served  in  cup  of  gold, 
Without  that  leadership  divine 
Of  which  the  ancient  singers  told, 
Without  Pan  piping  in  the  shade 
By  laurel  and  by  myrtle  made, — 
Still  sing  the  Muses'  favored  line 

In  rhythmic  measure,  strong  and  bold. 


73 


THE  MYSTERY 

HO  may  detect  the  thought 
From  Nature  caught, 
And  folded  away  so  close 
In  the  bud  of  the  rose? 
The  blush  of  crimson  is  there 
On  the  dimpled  petals  so  fair, 
As  if  for  its  beauty  so  rare, — 
A  blush  for  the  sweetness  sought 

When  its  leaves  unfold, 
For  the  grace  with  which  has  been  wrought 
Its  heart  of  gold. 

But  the  thought  that  we  would  know 
Is  hidden  below 

Whatever  of  purpose  lies 

Before  our  eyes; 

For  the  rose — it  would  be  as  sweet 
If  it  bloomed  in  a  lone  retreat, 
Unvisited  by  the  feet 

Of  one  who  will  linger  long 
In  admiring  gaze, 

Who  will  try  to  weave  in  his  song 
A  note  of  praise. 


74 


WHAT   CHARM 

W  HAT  charm  hath  voice  of  fir  or  pine, 

In  this  deep  solitude, 
To  lead  these  wayward  thoughts  of  mine 

To  more  reflective  mood; 
What  charm  of  feeling  in  their  tone, 
As  if  soft  pipes  of  Pan  were  blown 
By  one  who  had  our  sorrows  known, 

Our  pain  had  understood? 

What  charm  hath  song  of  singing  bird, 

With  its  low  melody, 
With  voice  of  summer  breezes  heard 

From  out  the  leafy  tree ; 
What  charm  hath  it  in  cadence  sweet 
To  lead  these  idly  wandering  feet 
Where  I  may  hear  the  bird  repeat 

What  Youth  sang  o'er  to  me? 

What  charm  have  flowers  of  this  knoll, 

Moss-bedded,  blooming  fair, 
That  give  their  beauty  to  the  soul, 

Their  fragrance  to  the  air ; 
What  charm  have  these,  of  charms  the  sum, 
That  though  their  smiling  lips  are  dumb, 
Yet  sweetly  sue  and  bid  me  come 

And  find  my  lost  youth  there? 


[75] 


CHARM   OF   SONG 

1  HERE  is  a  hush  upon  the  earth  and  air, 

A  stillness  in  the  forest  depth  around ; 
With  lifted  foot  the  fox  seems  not  to  dare 

Disturb  with  step  a  silence  so  profound ; 

Nor  is  there  any  sound 
Of  voice  of  summer  breeze 
From  fir  and  hemlock  trees 

That  grow  the  noonday-shadowed  stream  along; 
No  rustling  in  the  weeds, 
No  whispering  of  reeds, 

So  hushed  is  Nature  by  the  charm  of  song! 

It  is  the  veery  singing  to  his  mate, 

And  calling  fondly  from  the  wooded  dell ; 
To  hear  that  song  all  other  singers  wait 

As  worshippers  wait  for  the  vesper  bell 

Their  rosaries  to  tell ; 
We,  too,  the  magic  own 
Of  that  soft  plaintive  tone 

Heard  from  the  very  bosom  of  the  wood ; 
And  as  the  fox  refrains 
From  marring  perfect  strains 

So  are  we  loth  the  farther  to  intrude. 


[76] 


GYPSY  SONG 

1  HERE  is  sunlight  on  the  mountain, 

There's  a  shadow  on  the  hills, 
There  is  silence  on  the  fountain, 

There  is  music  on  the  rills ; 
So  merry  peals  of  laughter 

Are  heard  from  wayside  tent, 
With  sighs  and  sobbing,  after 

The  short-lived  joys  are  spent, 
For  the  Gypsies'  hours  of  gladness 
Go  hand  in  hand  with  sadness. 

While  the  Gypsy  girl  is  singing 

As  in  a  happy  vein, 
There  comes  a  sharp  note  bringing 

A  memory  of  pain ; 
Her  summer  cannot  sever 

Itself  from  winter  quite, 
Her  fairest  day  is  ever 

Attended  by  the  night ; — 
Mirth  follows  after  Sorrow, 
They  will  join  upon  the  morrow. 


77 


RAIN   SONG 

AFTER  the  hush  of  a  summer's  noon, 
After  the  burning  heat  and  the  glare 
Of  eagerly  quivering  air 
In  which  do  the  poppies  droop  and  swoon, 

When  the  world  has  forgotten  its  morning  song, 
When  are  leaves  of  the  trembling  poplar  still, 
And  the  brook  goes  dreamily  along 

In  the  shadow  of  the  hill ; — 
Then  a  whisper  among  the  trees, 
Then  a  breath  of  the  rising  breeze, 

And  a  waking  to  life  and  music  among 
Brown  thrushes  by  the  rill. 

Then  do  the  hylas  begin  to  peep 

In  the  dusky  gloom  of  the  shadows  cool 
Over  the  meadow  pool, 

And  the  robins  wake  from  their  noonday  sleep 
To  join  with  the  linnets  of  the  wood, 

With  the  sparrow  of  the  fields  again, 
With  the  twittering  of  the  swallow's  brood, 

Loud  creaking  of  the  vane ; — 
Then  the  pines  are  gently  stirred, 
And  an  undertone  is  heard 

Giving  a  welcome,  hearty  and  good, 
To  the  coolness  of  the  rain. 


178] 


SOUL  OF   MELODY 

\VlTH  all  the  singer's  skill, 

With  all  persuasiveness  of  voice, 
He  wooes  from  sloping  hill 

And  from  its  shady  nook 
Soft  murmuring  of  the  running  rill, 

Low  song  of  idle  brook, 

To  come  and  with  his  song  rejoice. 

It  is  to  help  of  these, 

Their  undertones  lent  to  his  song, 
The  magic  symphonies 

Of  waters  falling  so, 
To  wanderings  of  the  wayward  breeze 

That  through  the  pine-tops  go, 

All  tributes  of  his  praise  belong. 

The  singer's  voice  alone 

Would  lack  all  grace  of  harmony ; 
There  is  another  tone 

He  strives  to  reach — in  vain, 
Wild  note  which,  blending  with  his  own, 

Shall  from  the  perfect  strain 

Breathe  forth  the  soul  of  Melody. 


79 


RENEWAL 


T 


HE  heart  that  springs  up  at  the  sight  of  a  flower, 
Of  a  violet  low  in  the  grass, 
Must  quickly  respond  to  the  magical  power 
Of  songs  that  are  sung  at  the  opening  hour 
Of  days  that  so  merrily  pass, 
When  April  is  here 
With  a  smile  and  a  tear, — 

A  smile  for  the  meeting  and  greeting  of  Summer, 
Of  all  the  glad  seasons  the  joyfullest  comer, — 
A  tear  for  her  going,  alas! 

A  breath  from  the  lily  will  serve  as  a  token, 

As  Echo  repeating  a  song, 
Of  thoughts  that  were   tender,   yet  never  were 

spoken, 

Of  promises  dear  that  have  never  been  broken 
Although  they've  been  cherished  so  long, 
That  Nature  is  true 
And  the  whole  world  is  new 
As  often  as  lilies  their  incense  are  burning, 
And  swallows  to  sheltering  eaves  are  returning, — 
The  impressions  of  youth  are  how  strong! 


[80] 


CRADLE   SONG 

JL/ITTLE  birds  are  in  their  nest, 

A-swinging  on  the  bough, 
And  the  wind  from  out  the  West 
Rocks  the  twittering  ones  to  rest 

As  I  rock  the  cradle  now; 
As  the  mother  bird  loves  best 
Sleepy  brood  beneath  her  breast 
So,  my  darling,  art  thou  blest 

With  a  love  strong  as  the  bough, 

Even  thou. 

Let  the  west  wind  softly  blow 

On  the  bosom  of  the  deep, 
Rock  his  dory  to  and  fro, — 
Rock  my  baby's  father  so 

As  I  rock  my  babe  to  sleep ; 
Lamp  in  lighthouse,  flash  and  glow, 
Harbor  of  safe  refuge  show, 
Wings  of  angels,  hover  low 

Over  land  and  over  deep, 

Loved  ones  keep. 


[81] 


OJIBWAY   LULLABY 

1  HE  wind  is  in  the  trees, 
Does  my  darling  baby  hear 
What  is  whispered  to  his  ear 

With  the  lisping  of  the  breeze, 
That  love  keeps  his  mother  near, 
And  that  baby  need  not  fear, 

For  the  wind  is  in  the  trees? 

The  stars  are  in  the  skies, 
Does  my  darling  baby  see 
How  they  wink  at  him  and  me, 

Nearly  bright  as  baby's  eyes, 
How  they  wink  to  him  that  he 
Is  as  safe  as  safe  can  be, 

For  the  stars  are  in  the  skies? 

Then  go  to  sleep,  dear  child, 
The  squirrels  are  in  bed, 
Black  squirrels,  gray  and  red, 

And  the  little  foxes  wild ; 
The  stars  are  overhead, 
The  winds  with  me  have  said, 

"Go,  go  to  sleep,  dear  child." 


82 


OUR   SONGS 

V_yUR  songs  are  sad  today; 
No  more  the  heart  rejoices 
In  sound  of  happy  voices, 

No  more  are  spirits  gay, — 

Our  songs  are  sad  today. 

Our  songs  are  sad  today, 

Though  all  the  woods  are  ringing 
With  notes  of  rapturous  singing, 

In  whole-souled  praise  of  May, — 

Our  songs  are  sad  today. 

Our  songs  are  sad  today, 
Although  there  is  no  reason 
Why  these  in  every  season 

Should  not  our  praise  convey, — 

Our  songs  are  sad  today. 

Let  songs  be  glad  today, 
Where  is  so  much  of  beauty, 
So  much  of  love  and  duty 

Which  we  can  ne'er  repay, — 

Let  songs  be  glad  today! 


[83] 


SONG  OF   LOVE 

.NOT  of  daisies  at  our  feet, 

Daisies  white,  with  tips  of  red; 
Not  of  poppies  in  the  wheat, 

Poppies  hanging  drowsy  head; 
Not  of  roses  fair  and  sweet, 

Roses  rich  in  perfume  shed ; 
Is  the  song  my  lips  repeat, 

Song  to  living  music  wed. 

Not  of  diamond  flashing  light, 

Diamond  from  the  murky  mine ; 
Not  of  ruby  burning  bright, 

Ruby  mocking  Chian  wine ; 
Not  of  pearl  as  daisy  white, 

Pearl  from  ocean's  depth  of  brine, 
Is  the  song  I  sing  tonight, 

Song  of  mystery  divine. 

Not  of  deeds  of  chivalry, 

Deeds  of  valor  widely  known ; 
Not  the  praise  of  victory, 

Praise  by  clarion  trumpet  blown; 
Not  the  pomp  of  majesty, 

Pomp  about  a  monarch's  throne, 
Is  the  song  I  sing  to  thee, 

Song  of  love,  of  love  alone. 


84 


A   LITTLE   SONG 

IT  is  a  little  song  the  streamlets  sing 

While  on  their  way  to  join  the  mighty  sea; 
A  strain  of  quiet  peacefulness  they  bring 

Into  the  humble  life  of  bird  and  bee ; 

One  note  they  add  to  Nature's  minstrelsy, 
That  through  the  outer  world  shall  ever  ring 

To  human  heart  a  cheerful  melody. 

It  is  a  little  song  the  swallows  sing 

While  flying  o'er  the  meadow  to  and  fro, 

A  repetition  of  low  twittering 

Was  made  in  swallow  flights  long  years  ago, 
And  centuries  to  come  that  song  shall  know; 

To  memory  it  faithfully  will  cling 

And  keep  the  heart  still  youthful,  singing  so. 

It  is  a  little  song  the  Muse  would  sing, 

Of  harmonies  that  rule  the  field  and  wood; 

She  trusts  not  to  an  over- venturous  wing, 
Attempts  but  simple  themes  in  pensive  mood, 
Content,  if  only  these  be  understood 

By  grieving  heart  that  mourns  some  poor,  lost 

thing 
That  to  the  heart  was  very  dear  and  good. 


85] 


RIVER   SONG 

W  ITH  a  current  bold  and  strong 
Runs  the  river  along 
Between 

Its  meadow-banks  of  green 
That  lie 

Under  the  summer  sky, 
And  quietly  listen,  as  I, 
To  the  river's  perpetual  song. 

Hushed  are  the  birds  in  the  trees, 
Only  the  murmurous  bees 
As  they  pass, 

And  the  crickets  in  the  grass 
Respond 

To  the  ripples  from  the  pond, 
To  the  echoes  from  beyond, 
As  if  these  had  come  over  unmeasured  seas. 

And  the  musical  river  sings 
Of  the  many  mysterious  things 
It  has  seen, 

The  mountains  and  sea  between ; 
Its  song 

Is  of  love  that  endureth  long, 
That  grows,  as  the  river,  strong 
With  the  happiness  that  it  brings. 


[86] 


WHISTLING 

1  HE  boy  goes  whistling  down  the  lane, 

No  thought  of  any  care  has  he. 
And  when  the  boy  comes  back  again, 

Still  is  he  whistling  merrily; 
For  sweet  delight  of  lad,  he  deems 

The  world  just  now  made  over  new, 
That  creatures  of  the  woods  and  streams 

Are  with  himself  as  happy,  too. 

Along  his  path,  on  either  side, 

Is  tangled  growth  of  bush  and  brier, 
The  friendly  alders  spreading  wide, 

The  slender  birches  reaching  higher; 
From  out  the  sheltering  thickets  near, 

Concealing  broken  walls  of  stone, 
The  blackbird  whistles  loud  and  clear 

A  hearty  gladness  of  its  own. 

Ah,  happy  boy;  ah,  happy  bird! 

The  joy  of  life  is  yours  to  share, 
The  melody  of  music  heard, 

The  beauty  of  a  vision  fair; 
The  world  is  with  you  in  its  youth, 

With  you  another  age  was  born, 
Your  songs — they  are  the  voice  of  truth, 

Your  lives — the  glory  of  the  morn. 


[87] 


PRIMER  AND   PSALTER 

IN  merry  England,  when  its  king 

Was  one  of  the  Plantaganets, 
The  English  boy  was  taught  to  sing 

Those  madrigals  and  canzonets 
Which  gave  to  young  and  old  delight, 
Which  made  the  hours  of  pastime  bright 
With  music  and  with  revelling, 

With  sports  the  later  world  forgets. 

The  schoolboy,  on  his  morning  way, 
Went  as  the  culprit  to  his  fate ; 

The  world  about  him  was  so  gay, 
The  heart  within  so  full  of  hate 

For  primer,  with  its  letters  bold, 

That  of  his  homely  duties  told, 

That  taught  him  how  his  prayers  to  say, 
And  what  he  owed  to  King  and  State. 

And  with  the  primer  went  along 

The  psalter,  o'er  his  shoulder  slung, 
To  teach  the  boy  the  notes  of  song, 

His  Maker's  praises  to  be  sung, 
So  with  his  task  there  was  combined 
This  gracious  training  of  the  mind, 
That  he  might,  when  a  yeoman  strong, 
Bless  what  he  learned  when  he  was  young. 


[88J 


HEART   LONGING 

u*~r^ 

L  HE  rain  is  over,  and  the  sun  is  out, 
The  swallows  are  again  upon  the  wing ; 

The  brook  is  calling  with  a  louder  shout, 
And  now  begin  the  happy  birds  to  sing ; — 

The  birds  are  happy,  I  am  glad  as  they; 

O  mother,  mother,  let  me  go  and  play! 

"A  treetoad  trills  from  out  the  orchard  tree, 
A  frog  is  crooning  down  below  the  well, 

The  crickets  in  the  wheatfield  call  to  me, 

And  there  are  more  of  them  than  I  can  tell ; — 

Crickets  are  happy,  I  am  glad  as  they ; 

O  mother,  mother,  let  me  go  and  play! 

"The  grasses  are  now  washed  a  brighter  green, 

With  heavy  raindrops  are  they  bending  low, 
And  in  the  sunshine  on  their  tips  are  seen 

Fair  jewels  of  a  princess,  all  aglow; — 
They're  proudly  happy,  I  am  glad  as  they; 
O  mother,  mother,  let  me  go  and  play! 

"The  swallow  brood  are  flying  to  and  fro, 

They  skim  the  meadows  with  an  easy  wing ; 

The  bobolinks  above  are  singing  so 

As  hearts  were  breaking,  if  they  could  not  sing; 

The  birds  are  happy,  I  am  glad  as  they; 

O  mother,  mother,  let  me  go  and  play!" 


[89] 


MUSIC  OF  THE   BAY 

H<VER  and  evermore, 

Along  the  lonely  shore, 
Is  heard  the  low,  strange  music  of  the  bay; 

Whether  do  waters  flow 

Or  ebb  with  lapsing  slow, 
Those  haunting  tones  about  their  border  stay. 

Is  it  the  moving  sand 

That,  running  hand  in  hand 
With  restless  currents,  up  and  down  the  shore, 

Keeps  singing  all  the  way, 

Sings  all  the  night  and  day, 
Repeating  one  low  monotone  forever,  o'er  and  o'er? 

Are  waters  glad  to  meet 

The  land? — with  music  sweet 
Do  they  inspire  the  reeds  that  grow  along  their 
side? 

Or  is  it  that  below 

The  tidal  ebb  and  flow, 
In  caves  of  sea-born  melody  the  sirens  still  abide? 

Is  it  for  mortal  ears, 

The  music  that  one  hears, 
Filling  the  depths  of  this  vast  solitude, 

Or  are  there  spirits  fine, 

More  close  to  the  divine, 
That  by  these  gentle  strains  eternally  are  wooed? 


90 


WIND  HARPS 

JLJOWN  from  the  tallest  of  pines, 

Whose  heads  with  the  long  years  are  hoary, 
On  whose  tops  the  low  sun  shines 

In  the  brightness  of  evening  glory ; 
Down  through  the  gathering  shade, 

Soft  notes  of  the  wind  harps  are  calling, 
And  the  day's  reguiescat  is  played 

As  if  musical  rain  were  falling. 

Is  it  that  wind  harps  are  strung 

With  chords  that  vibrate  to  feeling? 
That  the  notes,  on  their  tremblings  rung, 

Are  to  faint  hearts  of  mortals  appealing? 
Or  that  breath  of  the  wayward  breeze 

Over  lips  of  dryads  escaping, 
And  the  tremulous  leaves  of  the  trees 

Are  the  tenderest  melodies  shaping? 

How  much  to  Nature  belongs, 

And  how  much  to  heart  of  the  hearer? 
And  how  may  we  know  if  the  songs 

To  dryad  or  mortal  be  nearer? 
Enough  that  the  fond  heart  keep 

The  spirit  of  harmony  captured, 
That  the  wind  harps  lull  us  to  sleep, 

With  the  beauty  of  song  enraptured. 


91 


BY  THE   BROOK 

A.  SONG  of  gladness,  song  of  joy, 
From  happy  heart  of  happy  boy, 

Care-free,  unthinking; 
He  sees  the  lilies  nod  to  him 
Along  the  waters'  grassy  brim, 

Sees  daisies  winking; 
And  down  below  his  smiling  face, 
A  smile  as  happy  lights  the  place 

Where  he  is  drinking. 

Ah,  could  the  boy  go  through  the  years 
As  free  from  trouble  and  from  fears, 

From  aught  appalling, 
As  now  upon  enchanted  ground 
Where  every  sight  and  every  sound 

To  him  is  calling, 
Then  were  his  life  a  happy  one, 
The  sands  of  time  would  gently  run, 

To  music  falling. 


[92] 


/\.FTER  the  storm  of  wind  and  of  rain 

Has  swept  from  the  crest  of  the  mountain  down, 
Has  quenched  the  parching  thirst  of  the  plain 
And  enlivened  the  grasses  dry  and  brown, 
Then  the  musical  voice 
Of  the  brooks  below 
Is  heard  to  rejoice 

In  the  sunset  glow, 

And  that  monotone,  ringing  after  the  rain, 
A  plainsong  is  singing  of  a  happier  strain. 

So  is  it  after  a  shedding  of  tears, 

When  the  soul  has  been  swept  by  the  winds  of 

Fate; 

When  the  light  through  the  broken  cloud  appears, 
A  rainbow  shines  where  was  gloom  of  late; 
And  the  broken  strings 

Are  again  made  whole, 
While  the  glad  heart  sings 

To  a  happier  soul 

A  plainsong  of  gladness,  of  a  joy  that  stays 
Through  the  hours  of  sadness  in  the  darker  days. 


93 


IN   PRAISE   OP  THE  OLD 

V-/LD  wood  to  burn  on  cheerful  hearth, 

With  bright  and  ruddy  blaze ; 
Old  wine  to  move  the  soul  to  mirth, 

To  move  the  lips  to  praise  ; 
Old  friends  to  rally  to  our  side 

When  there  is  any  need, 
And  when  companions  are  denied, 

Old  authors  then  to  read ; 
These  be  four  things  of  greatest  worth, 

The  wise  old  proverb  says. 

Old  wood  that  burns  so  cheerily 

Is  seasoned  through  and  through ; 
Old  wine  that's  drunk  so  merrily, 

With  years  is  mellowed,  too; 
Old  friends  that  aid  with  purse  or  voice 

Have  journeyed  with  us  long, 
And  so  the  poets  of  our  choice 

Sing  o'er  an  old-time  song; 
Until  we  deem  that  verily 

The  adage  old  is  true. 


[94 


SOLITUDE 

1  HROUGH  woodland  aisles  in  evening  gloom 

there  rings 

Low  cadenced  measure,  musical  to  me; 
Unseen,  secluded  close j  the  wood-thrush  sings 
Her  weirdly- woven  notes  of  mystery, 

And  mystery,  and  mystery; 
A  soothing  solace  for  the  day  it  brings, 

To  set  the  heart  from  care  and  trouble  free, 
And  on  the  stillness  of  the  twilight  flings 
Repeated  pulsing  beats  of  melody, 
And  melody,  and  melody. 

That  music  haunts  the  noisy,  babbling  rills 

That  over  rocks  come  rushing  through  the  wood ; 
And,  chiming  in  with  rhythmic  waters,  fills 

Deep  evening  silences  with  interlude, 

And  interlude,  and  interlude; 
With  charm  of  song,  unwearied,  wood-thrush  stills 

Impatient  clamor  of  her  noisy  brood, 
And  by  the  magic  of  her  song,  she  thrills 

The  soul  with  mystic  sense  of  solitude, 
And  solitude,  and  solitude. 


95 


HEART  OF  JUNE 

\VlTH  all  the  skies  so  fair, 
So  bright  and  warm  today, 
With  sunshine  sleeping  everywhere, 

The  heart  of  June  is  gay ; 
The  sunbeams  all  the  valley  fill, 
There  is  no  shadow  on  the  hill, 
No  lack  of  laughter  to  the  rill 
That  dances  on  its  way. 

The  idle  winds  along 

The  brookside  stop  to  play, 
To  listen  to  the  linnet's  song, 

The  heart  of  June  is  gay ; 
Here  in  this  quiet,  shady  nook, 
With  watching  of  a  line  and  hook, 
Or  with  the  reading  of  a  book, 
The  hours  run  away. 

As  restless  as  the  rill, 

The  moments  never  stay, 
We  count  their  flight  as  loss — but  still 

The  heart  of  June  is  gay ; 
The  seasons  come,  the  seasons  go, 
And  winter  with  its  ice  and  snow 
Will  melt  into  the  summer  so 

As  it  is  here  today. 


[96] 


HAPPINESS 

1  HEY  are  happy — children  playing 
In  the  open  fields  together, 
Happy  as  the  birds  are,  singing  their  sweet  song; 

Careless  whither  they  are  straying, 
Of  the  flowery  pathway,  whether 
It  may  quickly  end  or  lead  them  all  day  long. 

There  is  gladness  in  their  going, 
In  their  calling  and  their  laughter, 
In  the  play  of  sun  and  shadow  on  the  grass ; 

Winds  are  happy  in  their  blowing, 
Lilies  strain  with  longing  after, 
So  these  turn  to  watch  the  children  as  they  pass. 

Happy  is  the  world  about  them, 
Looking  in  the  children's  faces 
And  returning  happy  smiles  with  smiles  again, 

For  the  world  knows  that  without  them, 
In  the  lonely  desert  places, 
Beauty  blossoms  to  the  wilding  rose  in  vain. 

What  the  aim  of  our  endeavor, 
Be  it  wealth  or  be  it  glory, 
This  can  never  so  much  happiness  impart 

As  the  magic  lingering  ever 
In  Nature's  wonder-story, 
Brings  to  waking  sympathies  of  childish  heart. 


[97] 


SELF-BORN 

OELF-BORN,  the  carol  of  the  bird 
That  breaks  the  deepest  hush  of  night 
With  melody,  when  comes  the  light 
Of  morning  and  sweet  song  is  heard, 
Warbled  without  or  thought  or  word, 
To  wake  within  the  silent  wood 
Many  a  softly-sleeping  brood. 

It  needs  no  prompting  of  the  heart, 
No  impulse  warm  of  gratitude 
To  Nature  for  remembered  good, 

The  music  of  that  voice  to  start, — 

It  needs  not  aid  of  any  art — 
The  choral  singing  of  the  morn ; 
The  thrush's  carol  is  self-born. 

Such  is  the  birth  of  every  song 
That  sings  itself  on  human  lips, 
Over  their  dewy  margin  slips, 
On  pulsing  air  is  borne  along, 
Its  fearless  pinions  being  strong 
The  burden  of  unspoken  prayer 
Around  a  waking  world  to  bear. 


[98] 


BY   THE   STREAM 

W  ITH  a  song  does  the  mountain  rill 

Go  hurrying  to  the  sea, 
And  the  wind  from  over  the  hill 
Comes  whistling  merrily, 
And  the  bells  of  thyme 
Ring  symphonious  chime 
To  their  low  melody. 

The  voice  of  the  water  is  soft 

As  it  slips  down  this  mossy  shore, 
And  responses  are  given  from  aloft, 
In  the  pine  top's  murmurous  roar, 
And  the  bells  a-swing 
To  the  breezes  ring 
As  they  rang  in  Tempe  of  yore. 

Now  'tis  only  the  stream  that  is  heard, 

As  it  leaps  down  over  the  ledge, 
Only  the  flags  that  are  stirred 

By  the  wind  in  the  reedy  sedge; — 
How  glad  were  we 
Were  it  given  us  to  see 
Pan  here  by  the  water's  edge! 


[99 


PIPES   OF   PAN 

UOWN  among  the  rushes, 

Under  alder  bushes, 
Resting  are  the  summer  winds  their  tired  feet  today ; 

Whispering  together 

Of  this  pleasant  weather, 
While  the  sun  and  shadows  are  all  the  time  at  play. 

Now  we  hear  the  flowing 

Of  swift  current  going 
In  its  circling  eddies  along  the  reedy  shore ; 

Rippling  music  bringing 

Thought  of  siren  singing 
To  our  old  world's  infancy  Sicilian  waters  o'er. 

Heavens  and  earth  each  other 

Meet  as  maid  and  brother 
After  a  long  absence  in  the  lonesome  world  of  man ; 

How  the  breeze  rejoices, 

Waters  hush  their  voices, 
Listening  to  the  music  that  is  made  by  pipes  of  Pan! 


[100] 


THE   GOLDEN  AGE 

was  this  world  more  merry,  more  light- 
hearted 

Than  it  has  shown  itself  for  ages  long; 
Loud  ring  has  from  its  seldom  laugh  departed, 

Some  notes  of  gladness  vanished  from  its  song; 
The  world  then  listened  to  the  inspired  singer 
Who  touched  at  once  his  lyre  and  its  heart, 
And  while  do  echoes  of  that  music  linger, 
There  must  be  mourning  for  him  and  his  art. 

He  sang, — that  minstrel  of  the  ages  olden — 

He  sang  how  close  of  kin  are  life  and  love; 
The  innocence  that  marked  those  cycles  golden, 

All  later  times  in  happiness  above ; 
He  sang  close  fellowship  of  Right  and  Duty, 

Two  comrades  going  ever  side  by  side ; 
He  sang  the  harmony  of  Truth  and  Beauty, 

Each  claiming  other  as  its  groom  or  bride. 

Then  was  there  time  for  indolence  and  leisure, 

Then  Nature  had  the  tutelage  of  man ; 
She  gave  him  music,  beauty  for  his  pleasure, 

Rich  splendor  of  the  earth,  sweet  pipes  of  Pan. 
Long  as  man  looked  and  listened  with  elation 

The  years  went  by  without  a  sense  of  pain ; 
Now  of  his  happiness  'twere  the  salvation 

Could  he  but  look  and  listen  once  again. 


[101] 


MUSIC  OF   HUMANITY 

.f\.S  lapping  waves,  upon  the  narrow  strip 

Of  shelving  sand  that  hems  the  lake  around, 
Run  up  the  gentle  slope,  then  backward  slip 
With  murmurous  repetition  of  a  sound 
That  lulls  to  reverie, — 
So  eager  thought  do  we 
Send  over  centuries  of  the  past,  to  meet 
The  spirit  of  that  time, — hear  it  repeat 
The  low,  sad  music  of  humanity. 

It  breaks  as  sound  of  water  on  the  ear, 

Of  lapping  waves  or  sound  of  falling  rain, 
Sad  murmuring  of  voices  on  the  ear, 

That  tells  of  sorrow,  tells  of  mortal  pain; 
The  tones  are  faint  and  low, 
The  voices  mingle  so, 

They  blend  as  do  the  waves  upon  the  shore, 
And  backward  to  the  present  hour  they  pour 
A  never-ceasing  monotone  of  woe. 


102 


1  O  and  fro 

Do  the  threaded  quills  of  the  shuttle  go, 
Weaving  into  the  web  apace 
Forms  of  beauty  and  forms  of  grace, 
Such  as  the  weaver's  fancy  may  trace, 

Or  may  Nature  show 

Where  do  wild  flowers  grow, 

And  the  charm  of  their  delicate  petals  throw 
Over  an  otherwise  desolate  place. 

Sitting  there 

And  watching  the  figures  grow  with  care, 
Patiently  works  the  weaver  and  long, 
Careful  that  not  a  thread  go  wrong, 
That  the  web  be  smooth  and  the  web  be  strong, 

That  the  pattern  be  fair, 

Fit  for  a  lady  of  rank  to  wear ; 

The  shuttle  sounding  a  rhythmic  air, 

In  the  weaver's  heart  shall  be  woven  a  song. 


103 


OP  SONG 

W  E  cannot  sing  always ; — 
The  heart  is  sometimes  glad, 
The  heart  is  sometimes  sad, 

Not  long  the  same  it  stays ; 
Sometimes  we  are  in  light, 
Sometimes  we  are  at  night, 

Be  short  or  long  the  days; 

Deeds  may  deserve  our  blame, 
They  may  be  worthy  fame 

And  Song's  immortal  praise. 

The  singer  is  not  long 

Kept  waiting  at  the  gate, — 
The  maids  impatient  wait, 

The  courtiers  round  him  throng ; 
And  as  to  trembling  string 
He  now  begins  to  sing, 

In  tones  are  clear  and  strong, 
All  listeners  agree 
No  pleasure  can  there  be 

That  may  out-rival  Song. 


[104 


HARP  OP  THE   WOODS 

of  the  woods,  that  breathes  familiar  air 

So  musically  sweet, 
Soft  magic  numbers  ringing  everywhere 

Lead  on  my  wandering  feet ; 
How  would  the  whispering  pines  in  gentlest  tone 

Recall  me  to  their  shade, 
And  sweetest  carol  to  my  childhood  known, 

By  drooping  birches  made? 

O  magic  harp,  along  whose  trembling  strings 

Light  hand  of  Nature  sweeps, 
Awakening  music  that  to  Memory  clings, 

The  heart  forever  keeps ; 
These  are  the  mingled  notes  of  quiring  birds 

The  dawn  of  summer  gives, — 
Outbursts  of  joy  and  gladness  beyond  words, 

And  youth  unfading  lives. 

O  magic  harp,  despair  of  human  skill, 

Out-rivaling  all  art, 
Your  wildwood  notes  the  soul  with  rapture  thrill, 

With  gladness  fill  the  heart ; 
Enchantment  lingers  in  the  melting  strain 

That  we  in  memory  hear, 
And  leads  us  backward  to  our  youth  again, 

Retracing  year  by  year. 


[105 


THE  SURVIVAL 

1  HE  singer  had  sung  to  the  world  so  long, 
And  the  world  had  listened  so  breathlessly 

To  the  cadences  low  of  that  sweet  song, 
To  the  musical  tones  of  that  harmony, 
That  it  never  for  once  had  thought  that  he 

Whose  voice  was  ever  so  clear  and  strong, 

Could  to  the  race  of  mortals  belong, 

That  the  strains  of  his  wonderful  melody — 
The  passionate  burst  of  his  music — could  be 
The  paean  of  Immortality. 

But  the  voice  of  the  singer, — it  died  away 
Into  the  lonely  silence  of  night, 

And  when  anew,  at  the  dawn  of  the  day, 
Did  the  world  awake  to  the  morning  light, 
There  was  beauty  of  sky  and  of  earth  for  the 
sight, 

There  was  singing  of  birds  on  the  bending  spray, — 

Birds  singing  their  passionate  lives  away 
In  a  rapturous  ecstasy  of  delight; — 
There  was  song  triumphant  in  music's  might, 
After  those  mute  lips  were  cold  and  white. 


[106] 


REPEATED   SONG 

REPEATED  o'er  from  year  to  year 
Are  songs  of  gladness  that  we  hear, 
And  in  the  tops  of  woodland  trees 
Soft  is  the  murmuring  of  the  breeze, 
The  same  sweet  singing  birds  appear 
With  beauty  and  with  song  to  please. 

There  is  no  failure  of  our  spring 
The  home-returning  birds  to  bring, 
And  to  their  happy  notes  belong 
The  happy  harmonies  of  song; 
The  warblers  and  the  thrushes  sing 
In  unison  all  summer  long. 

So  is  it  that  does  Nature  raise 
These  temples  dedicate  to  praise 
Wherein  this  tuneful  choir  of  hers 
Sings  to  delight  the  universe, 
Intent  upon  their  simple  lays, 

While  we  walk  there  as  worshippers. 


[107] 


IN   IDLENESS 

W  HY  should  the  idle  singer  ask 

The  muse  of  lyric  minstrelsy 
To  help  him  at  his  chosen  task, 

To  sing,  dear  Love,  to  sing  of  thee, 

To  find  a  fitting  melody 
In  which  the  charmed  ear  may  trace 

Along  the  cadenced  symphony 
Some  semblance  of  that  winning  grace 

That  to  thy  presence  bringeth  me, 
As  to  the  violet's  hiding  place 

Its  perfume  tempts  the  roving  bee? 

Why  should  the  idle  singer  try 
So  difficult — so  daring  feat, 

As  in  his  song  to  satisfy 

Large  claims  of  beauty — to  repeat 
The  many  harmonies  that  meet 

Within  thy  face,  and  in  the  tone 

Of  that  kind  voice,  so  low  and  sweet, 

And  from  whose  accents  well  is  known 
How  faithfully  the  heart  doth  beat? 

The  thought  that  these  are  all  my  own 
Must  make  my  happiness  complete. 


108 


UNFORGOTTEN 

1  ES,  thou  singer  of  the  past, 

Singing  for  us  tenderly 
Thoughts  and  fond  desires  that  last, 

Of  song's  immortality ; — 

Yes,  will  we 

After  all  these  ages  vast 
Sweeping  by  us  strong  and  fast, 

Sing  of  thee 

What  blossoms  to  thy  memory. 

No,  the  World  shall  not  forget 

Her  who  sang  on  Lesbian  shore, 
Songs  that  are  repeated  yet 

By  our  singers,  o'er  and  o'er; — 

Evermore 

Will  those  moving  strains  be  met, 
To  impassioned  verses  set, 

Streams  that  pour 

From  sources  we  cannot  explore. 


109 


SILENCES 

A.T  times  the  singer's  voice  must  make  delay 

Upon  some  minor  chord, 

At  times  the  enraptured  heaven's  thought  will  stay 
Upon  a  single  word, — 
However  short  or  long 
May  be  the  song, 

There  will  be  here  and  there  along  the  way 
Unsounded  spaces  heard. 

As  when  a  ship  before  the  freshening  gale 

Is  on  its  voyage  sped, 

When  shifting  of  its  course  has  slackened  sail, 
It  still  runs  on  ahead, 
So  does  the  melody 
Run  on  for  me, 

Over  the  empty  spaces  on  the  scale, 
Over  the  thought  unsaid. 

And  here  is  where  Song  makes  its  magic  known, — 

It  plays  its  greater  part, 

And  where  the  singer  makes  that  charm  his  own, 
The  triumph  of  his  art ; 
To  give  those  silences 
Such  cadences 

That  they  should  waken  sympathetic  tone 
Within  the  hearer's  heart. 


[110 


SOLACE   OF  SONG 

\VHAT  solace  can  there  be 
For  human  misery, 
More  comforting  to  grieving  soul 
than  human  sympathy? 

'Tis  not  for  any  art 
To  heal  the  wounded  heart, 
But  kindness  has  the  gentle  grace 
its  soothing  to  impart. 

And  how  shall  this  be  shown? — 
Not  by  our  words  alone, 
But  by  warm  clasping  of  the  hand, 
soft  tenderness  of  tone. 

Harmonious  notes  that  ring 

Along  the  quivering  string, 

To  other  tense  and  waiting  wires 

concordant  numbers  bring. 

So  is  it  that  the  tear, 
Warm  melting  tones  we  hear, 
Flow  from  the  singer's  pitying  heart 
and  in  his  songs  appear. 


Ill 


SONG   OF   THE   RIVER 

J.  HE  river  running  to  the  sea 
A  song  of  gladness  leaves  with  me. 

How  soft  the  voice  of  waters  flowing 

Through  meadow  lands — a  silvery  tide ; 
How  soft  the  voice  of  breezes  blowing 
Through  pliant  reeds  and  rushes  growing 
Close  down  along  the  river's  side! 

Low  undersong  that  voice  is  bringing, 
To  happy  shores  those  waters  pass, 
Low  undersong  to  thrush's  singing, 
To  ceaseless  chirp  of  cricket,  ringing 
Joy's  glad  carillon  in  the  grass. 

How  sweet  the  voice  of  waters  falling, 

That  tempt  the  thrushes  to  their  side, 
To  heart  of  bird  and  cricket  calling, 
The  heart  of  wondering  child  enthralling 
And  in  his  memory  glorified! 

The  river  running  to  the  sea 

A  song  of  gladness  leaves  with  me. 


[112] 


SONG   FOR   RELIEF 

1  HE  song  may  be  joyous  and  glad, 

O'erbrimming  with  mirth  and  with  glee, 
The  heart  of  the  singer  be  sad 

As  heart  of  a  mortal  may  be ; 
But  the  great  world  never  will  know 

What  sorrows  with  mirth  may  abide, — 
The  cloud  that  is  gloomy  below 

Is  bright  on  its  sunward  side. 

The  light  in  the  glistening  tear 

That  wells  into  childish  eyes 
Is  the  same  light  that  paints  so  clear 

The  bow  on  the  clouded  skies ; 
The  tear,  as  a  token  of  pain, 

From  the  depths  of  a  fond  heart  may  flow, 
The  sky  must  be  veiled  with  the  rain 

That  the  bow  of  promise  may  show. 

And  so  must  the  heart  be  sore 

With  a  sense  of  its  loss  and  of  grief, 
That  the  soul  of  the  singer  should  pour 

Itself  in  a  song  for  relief; 
To  both  the  sun  and  the  rain 

The  glorious  arch  belongs, 
From  the  blending  of  many  a  strain 

Comes  the  melody  of  our  songs. 


113 


THE   LITTLE   HAND 

A  LITTLE  childish  hand 
Slips  softly  into  mine, 

With  friendly  clasp, 

And  as  strong  a  grasp 
As  the  tendrils  of  a  vine ; 

Those  fingers  press 

With  a  tenderness, 
Of  loving  trust  the  sign. 

Dear  little  childish  hand, 
Held  fondly  in  my  own, 

Content  to  stay 

All  the  long  way 
We  two  in  life  have  known ; 

But  now,  alas! 

The  years  slow  pass, — 
One  hand  is  left  alone. 

O  little  childish  hand, 

So  softly  slipped  from  mine! 
How  hard  for  me 
Was  the  firm  decree 

That  hand-clasp  to  resign! 
And  now  I  pray 
That  little  hand  may 

Be  held  in  the  Hand  Divine. 


114 


UNCHANGED 

W  ITH  heart  unchanged  do  we  retrace 
The  ways  our  weary  feet  have  pressed, 

And  seek  again  the  lonely  place 

Our  childhood  knew  and  loved  the  best ; 

A  farmstead  girt  around  by  wood, 

By  hills  that  close  together  stood 

To  sentinel  the  solitude 

Unbroken  all  the  summer  long, 
Except  for  flight  of  bird  and  song. 

With  heart  unchanged,  once  more  we  tread 
The  paths  were  worn  by  childish  feet, 

The  pine  tops  murmuring  overhead 
What  was  to  ear  of  childhood  sweet ; 

Today  we  find  repeating  still 

Soft  lapsing  cadence  of  the  rill, 

Heard  as  if  from  beyond  the  hill, 

Beyond  the  flood  of  years  have  flown, 
Since  childhood  walked  these  paths  alone. 


115 


HUSHED   THOUGHT 

/\H  me!  what  thought  forever  clings 
Around  one  fondly  cherished  name, 

As  moth  upon  adventurous  wings 
Aye  hovers  round  the  taper's  flame! 

It  is  dear  thought  of  tenderness 

For  one  whose  loving  heart  was  mine, 

While  Heaven  was  bountiful  to  bless 
My  life  with  what  was  most  divine; 

It  finds  no  utterance  in  word, 

Or  song  that  comes  to  others'  ears, 

But  to  my  soul  is  ever  heard, 
Transcending  eloquence  of  tears. 

It  is  my  comrade  through  the  day, 
My  tent-mate  is  it  through  the  night, 

It  goes  beside  me  all  the  way 

And  makes  the  path  with  memories  bright. 

That  thought  will  nevermore  depart 
Out  from  the  spirit's  holiest  cell ; 

It  lays  a  hush  upon  the  heart, 
A  silence  on  the  lips  as  well. 


116 


REIGN   OF   SILENCE 

W  HERE  winding  streamlet  through  the  grassy 
meadow 

So  softly  slips, 
In  pool  beneath  the  pine's  unmoving  shadow 

The  titlark  dips, 
Where  eddying  waters  by  the  green  banks  linger 

With  willow  tips, 
There  waiting  silence  lays  her  warning  finger 

On  speaking  lips. 

She  waits  a  message  from  the  streamlet's  fountain, 

As  this  comes  near, 
A  voice  of  Nature  from  the  far-off  mountain 

To  mortal  ear, 
A  message  from  wild  rocks  and  ledges  lonely, 

In  accents  clear, 
Interpreted  in  terms  of  silence  only 

For  us  to  hear. 

She  waits  on  Echo,  to  the  stream  replying 

From  rock  and  hill, 
On  brood  of  fledgling  sparrows  newly  trying 

Their  native  skill ; 
Though  voices  many  of  the  happy  morning 

The  valley  fill, 
Let  Silence  only  raise  her  head  in  warning, 

All,  all  are  still. 


117 


TO   AVALON 

I  HE  winding  paths  that  lead  us  on 

To  Avalon 

Are  bordered  close 
By  mingled  hedge  of  thorn  and  rose. 

The  growing  grasses  'neath  our  feet 

With  thyme  are  sweet, 

And  daisies  wake, 
Glad  of  the  day  for  our  own  sake. 

Brown  thrushes  in  the  thickets  near 

Sing  loud  and  clear 

Their  matin  song, 
To  cheer  those  journeying  along. 

And  thus  it  is  two  children  go, 

Loitering  slow, 

Hand  clasped  in  hand, 
Together  to  enchanted  land. 

About  their  footsteps  everywhere 

The  world  is  fair 

To  look  upon, — 
E'en  now  are  they  in  Avalon. 


[118 


RESPONSIVENESS 

JN  OW  sings  the  nightingale  alone, 

In  myrtle  thickets  by  the  rill ; 
Of  old  Onchestos'  walls  of  stone 

Do  swallows  haunt  the  ruins  still ; 
And  of  those  broken  fragments  found, 
Now  lying  strewn  upon  the  ground, 
One,  being  struck,  gives  forth  a  sound 
Sweetly  melodious  in  tone, 
As  harpstring  under  magic  quill. 

From  this  note  do  we  know  today 
The  ancient  legend  must  be  true 
Which  tells  us  that  Apollo  lay 

The  walls'  foundation; — that  he  drew 
The  city's  limits  with  his  bow; 
He  watched  the  rising  ramparts  grow, 
And  while  the  god  was  busied  so, 
His  lyre  dreamed  the  hours  away 

Upon  this  block  and  thrilled  it  through. 


[119 


COMING  AND  GOING 

11.OW  merrily  they  sing, 

The  birds  when  they  come  back  to  us  in  spring! 

From  hedgerow  and  from  tree 

They  sing  to  you  and  me, 
And  with  the  hearty  gladness  of  their  singing 
Fair  promises  of  the  summer  are  they  bringing. 

And  all  the  summer  long 

The  birds  are  charming  us  with  happy  song, 

As  if  they  did  not  know 

How  soon  would  summer  go, 
That  they  must  bring  their  music  to  an  ending, 
That  to  a  minor  chord  all  song  is  tending. 

When  ready  for  their  flight, 

The  birds  steal  silently  away  at  night ; 

They  would  not  have  us  know 

How  loth  they  are  to  go, 

But  leave  the  cadence  of  their  song  still  falling, 
To  memory  the  jocund  Spring  recalling. 


120 


LIGHT  AND   SHADE 

OALF  in  sunlight,  half  in  shadow, 
Yellow  mayflies  throng  the  meadow, 

Sailing  seas  of  ruddy  clover, 

Loitering  ox-eye  daisies  over, 
Under  birch  twigs  interlacing, 

Dappling  all  the  ground  below; 
Eager,  one  another  chasing, 

Mayflies  flutter  to  and  fro; 
Half  in  sunshine,  half  in  shadow, 

Life  with  them  is  happy  so. 

Half  of  Nature's  song  is  gladness, 
Other  half  is  only  sadness ; 

Who  would  life  in  music  render, 

He  must  mingle  harsh  and  tender, 
In  the  happy  sunlight  singing, 

Lightly  as  do  mayflies  go, 
In  the  shadow  softly  ringing 

Bells  of  tolling,  sad  and  slow; 
Half  of  Nature's  song  is  gladness, 

Other  half  is  only  woe. 


121 


BROKEN   STRAINS 

oMALL  is  the  offering,— 

Of  little  worth,  I  fear, — 
This  fragment  of  a  song  I  bring, 
These  few  and  broken  strains  I  sing, 

For  only  those  to  hear 

To  whom  is  memory  dear. 

Sweet  memory  of  one 

Who  was  an  angel  here, 
Whose  life  immortal  was  begun 
Before  the  mortal  life  was  done ; 

More  blessed  to  appear 

Within  a  higher  sphere. 

Fond  Love  that  cannot  die, 

Yet  follows  close  along 
The  paths  that  near  Heaven's  portals  lie, 
To  mend  my  broken  strains  will  try, 

And  with  compassion  strong, 

Complete  for  me  my  song. 


[122 


SLEEP 

ALL-FRIENDLY  sleep 

Over  the  senses  creep, 
Until  day's  genial  light 
Shall  fade  from  sight, 

And  angels  come  to  keep 
Us  through  the  night. 

Come,  Sleep;  come  near 

And  whisper  to  our  ear 
The  softly-cadenced  thing 
Our  dreams  may  bring, 

That  we  may  know  we  hear 
What  angels  sing. 

Thy  leave  then  take 

When  the  glad  dawn  shall  break, 

When  sing  the  thrushes  all 

Love's  madrigal ; 
Then  gladly  let  us  wake 

To  Duty's  call. 


[123 


OFF  SIREN  SHORE 

1  HERE  are  times  when  the  pipe  and  the  flute 

Are  as  silent  as  Echo  asleep, 
When  the  lips  of  the  singer  are  mute 

And  the  heart  would  its  mystery  keep ; 
Then  is  heard  in  life's  hour  of  calm 

A  music  undreamed  of  before, 
And  we  know  from  its  power  to  charm 

That  we're  voyaging  off  Siren  Shore. 

The  mist  weaves  a  mantle  of  light 

That  covers  the  waters  wide, 
And  this  'neath  the  moon  is  as  white 

As  the  veil  of  an  Eastern  bride ; 
Through  this  magical  stillness  of  night, 

In  this  blending  of  heaven  and  of  earth, 
Still  the  Sirens  their  voices  unite 

To  celebrate  Melody's  birth. 

Though  the  singers  are  farther  away, 

On  that  misty  and  mythical  shore, 
Yet  they're  singing  as  sweetly  today 

As  ever  they  sang  there  before ; 
When  the  silence  of  twilight  is  deep 

And  we're  idly  at  rest  on  the  oar, 
Then  we  drift  into  harbor  of  sleep 

Running  close  by  the  Siren  Shore. 


124] 


NATURE'S  TRAINING 

WHENCE  did  the  singing  bird 

That  dwells  in  the  greenwood  tree, 
Whose  song  is  at  evening  heard, 
A  musical  mystery; 
Whence  did  he  bring 
That  song  to  sing 

Out  of  his  own  happy  heart  to  the  unhappy  heart 
of  me? 

From  whom  did  he  learn  to  raise, 

At  the  close  of  the  summer's  day, 
A  low,  sweet  anthem  of  praise, 
His  adoration  to  pay ; 
From  his  tuneful  throat 
Set  music  afloat, 

That  into  the  hush  of  repose  will  insensibly  melt 
away? 

It  is  of  Nature  a  voice 

That  Nature  has  cared  to  train, 
Helping  a  world  to  rejoice, 
Easing  humanity's  pain ; — 
Assuring  me 
That  I,  too,  may  be 

Singing  as  Nature  has  trained  me,  nor  giving  my 
song  out  in  vain. 


125 


INTIMATIONS 

W  ILL  they  ever  come  back  to  me,  ever  again, 
The  visions  that  came  in  my  childhood  days? 
Will  the  morning  mist  trailing  over  the  plain 
Take  semblance  once  more  of  the  caravan  train, 
Slowly  winding  along  on  the  desert  ways? 

Shall  I  hear  them  repeated — sung  over  once  more, 

The  songs  that  delighted  my  youthful  ear? 
Will  the  wildwood  chorus  its  music  pour 
In  a  passionate  tide  on  life's  morning  shore, 

And  gladden  the  heart  as  the  spring  of  the  year? 

Will  they  come  in  the  darkness  and  silence  of  night, 
When  the  senses  are  lulled  to  the  quiet  of  sleep, 
The  dreams  that  with  glories  of  youth  were  bright, 
As  the  rain  that's  inwoven  with  sunset  light, — 
Will  they  in  the  future  their  promise  keep? 

Ah,  yes,  if  only  we  patiently  wait 

Till  the  chances  and  changes  of  life  are  passed, 
There  will  be  the  returning,  soon  or  late, 
Of  what  was  our  own  in  our  earlier  estate, 

And  what  shall  again  be  ours  at  last. 


[126] 


SONG  IN  WINTER 

r  EW  voices  are  there  left  to  cheer 

The  winter  with  a  song ; 
The  swallows  that  are  twittering  here, 
In  all  the  summer  of  the  year, 
With  summer's  going  disappear 

Upon  a  journey  long; 
And  now  that  skies  are  sadly  drear, 
That  ripened  leaves  are  dry  and  sere, 
The  shrill  winds,  whistling  loud  and  clear, 

Are  blowing  fresh  and  strong. 

A  world  all  white  with  frost  and  snow, 

A  ghostly  world  to  see! 
Unheard  the  streams  run  on  below, 
Ice-fettered  in  their  winter  flow, 
As  captives  scourged  the  waters  go 

Their  courses  silently ; 
From  wood  to  wood  flies  to  and  fro, 
Now  voiceless,  summer's  noisy  crow, 
And  only  is  there  heard  the  low, 

Sweet  note  of  chick-a-dee. 


[127] 


WOOD   NOTES 

/\S  a  sauntering  minstrel  of  old, 
With  only  his  songs  to  please, 

Had  the  magical  charm  to  hold 
Regard  of  the  world  with  these, 
So  the  wandering  summer  breeze 

Goes  idly  strolling  along, 

Lays  its  lip  to  the  tremulous  trees, 
And,  awaking  low  melodies, 

It  weaves  them  into  a  song. 

We  may  know  not  whether  it  be 
The  player  commanding  the  skill 

To  fashion  a  minstrelsy, 

The  heart  of  the  woodland  to  thrill, 
These  deep-shadowed  arches  to  fill 

With  a  music  in  unison 

With  the  cadenced  lapse  of  the  rill ; 
But  the  thought — it  is  lingering  still- 

The  Harp  and  the  Harper  are  one. 


[128] 


THE   LINNETS'   LESSON 

W  HO  taught  the  linnet's  brood  to  sing 

Their  low,  soft  strains  of  minstrelsy; 
Who  gave  them  native  skill  to  bring 
Those  notes  into  a  melody? 
Was  it  that  they  had  heard  . 
Voice  of  the  mother  bird, 

Or  in  their  hearts  was  joy  of  life  to  pitch  ecstatic 
stirred? 

Or  was  the  gift  of  music  made 

To  singing  bird  of  field  and  grove, 
That  loving  care  might  be  repaid 
With  ever  grateful  songs  of  love? 
And  was  that  favor  shown 
To  singing  bird  alone, 

Or  was  the  thought  that  our  lives  be  as  happy  as 
their  own? 

Ah  me!  we  cannot  understand, 

Nor  is  it  granted  us  to  ask 
What  thought  was  with  Creative  Hand 
While  this  was  busy  with  its  task ; 
But  this  we  comprehend, 
That  to  some  happy  end 

The  Master  to  His  scheme  of  life  did  grace  of  music 
lend. 


[129] 


POET   LORE 

1  HE  thoughts  that  with  us  upward  climb 

Through  studious  years,  on  toilsome  ways, 
Are  those  that  joined  us  at  the  prime 

Of  opening  life's  enchanted  days ; 
The  songs  that  now  I  sing  were  made 
When,  free  from  care,  a  child  I  played 
Under  the  birch  tree's  restless  shade. 

I  watched  the  dark  cloud  shadows  pass 

As  swiftly  as  the  swallows  fly, 
I  watched  the  winds  run  o'er  the  grass 

And  shake  the  dewy  violets  dry ; 
I  looked  to  find  Pan  somewhere  near, 
For  by  the  river  I  could  hear 
Pan  piping  on  his  reeds  so  clear! 

Then  newly  come  upon  life's  shore, 
I  found  lines  written  on  the  sand, 

But  though  I  conned  these  o'er  and  o'er, 
Their  sense  I  failed  to  understand ; 

'Tis  now  those  lines  of  mystery 

Faintly  at  last  reveal  to  me 

The  rhythmic  passion  of  that  sea. 


[130] 


THE   SUMMER   BIRD 

1  HE  bird  sings  all  day  long, 

Its  notes  are  full  and  clear, 
And  the  music  of  that  woodland  song 

Falls  on  the  boy's  glad  ear; 

Tis  the  heart's  delight  to  hear 
That  strain  of  melody  among 

Glad  voices  of  the  year. 

To  follow  Summer's  feet, 

Does  the  song  bird  hie  away, 
While  here,  through  winter's  snow  and  sleet, 

The  boy,  forsooth,  must  stay, 

For  him,  from  day  to  day, 
Will  Memory  to  the  heart  repeat 

That  summer  roundelay. 

O  bird  of  the  summer  time, 

How  sweetly  do  they  ring, 
Those  notes  heard  at  the  morning  prime, 

When  life  was  at  the  spring ; 

And  how  doth  Memory  bring 
Those  treasured  minstrelsies  that  chime 

With  every  note  I  sing! 


[131] 


THE   IDLE   SINGER 

1  HE  poet  who  in  English  verse  retold 
What  had  in  ages  past  and  saga-wise 

Been  sung  of  seamen  and  of  vikings  bold, 
In  runic  measures  been  repeated  thrice, 
Who  gave  to  us  the  Earthly  Paradise ; — 

He  called  himself,  in  deprecating  way, 

"The  idle  singer  of  an  empty  day." 

As  over  billows  famished  sea-fowl  skim 
Rough  surface  of  the  waters  in  their  flight, 

He  followed  those  sea-rovers  to  the  rim 
Of  the  horizon ;  spent  with  them  the  night ; 
He  listened  to  the  tales  they  would  recite, 

That  he  might  tell  these  in  his  charming  way,- 

This  idle  singer  of  an  empty  day. 

He  was  not  idle  as  the  Muses  count 

The  service  done  by  mortals  at  their  shrine ; 

The  bringing  clear  fresh  water  from  the  fount, 
Libations  pouring  there  of  oil  and  wine ; 
But  rather  were  these  duties  held  divine ; — 

Yet  he  who  had  such  services  to  pay 

Was  idle  singer  of  an  empty  day. 


[132] 


HEART   OF   OAK 

Jt\  little  boy  who  was  yet  but  a  child 

Of  roving  fancies, 
To  whom  the  world  in  gladness  turned  and  smiled 

With  loving  glances, 

Set  to  a  toilsome  task  in  lonely  field 

By  wood  surrounded, 
What  wonder  to  his  heart  the  song  appealed 

That  thence  resounded! 

The  longer  time  he  listened,  fainter  seemed 

Those  low  notes  falling, 
Until  at  last,  in  wonderment,  he  deemed 

Was  dryad  calling. 

The  hollow  oak  that  stood  all  scarred  and  torn — 

Its  branches  broken, 
With  burden  of  the  centuries  overborne, 

He  thought  had  spoken. 

From  long-forgotten  ages  of  the  past 

He  heard  the  story, 
Of  what  had  been  the  oak's  dominion  vast, 

Its  ancient  glory. 

And  ever  since  the  boy  and  man  has  walked 

With  reverent  feeling 
Beneath  the  oak,  has  listened  as  it  talked, 

Its  heart  revealing. 


133 


LIFE  AND  LOVE 

\J  Life,  how  sweet! 

How  swift  the  hours  run 
When  two  fond  lovers  meet, 

Two  paths  merge  into  one! 
O  Love,  how  sweet 

When  is  love's  guerdon  won, 
Making  the  life  complete, 

Its  happy  journey  done! 

O  Life,  how  fair! 

How  radiantly  bright 
When  do  a  loving  pair 

Walk  in  the  morning  light! 
O  Love,  how  fair! 

How  blessed  to  the  sight, 
Walking  with  our  life  there 

And  crowning  with  delight! 

O  Life,  O  Love! 

Each  to  the  other  dear, 
Precious  and  choice  above 

All  to  be  garnered  here! 
Together  rove 

Earth's  pleasant  ways  along, 
Harmoniously  move 

In  numbers  of  our  song. 


[134] 


THE  ANGELAS 

1  HEY  stretch  themselves, — cool,  silent  evening 
shadows, 

Across  wide  lakes  and  streams, 
And  gratefully  on  soft,  green  grassy  meadows 

Sink  into  arms  of  dreams ; 
As  smoke,  warm  sacrificial  altars  leaving, 

In  wreaths  of  incense  pale, 
Rise  mists  from  off  these  quiet  waters,  weaving 

For  Earth  her  bridal  veil. 

'Tis  twilight  hour  when  vesper  bells  are  ringing 

To  call  our  world  to  prayer, 
Those  softened  peals  deep  sense  of  quiet  bringing 

On  evening's  pulsing  air; 
To  lift  the  soul,  in  its  high  nature  queenly, 

Above  this  world  of  wrong, 
And  lead  it  there  to  take  its  place  serenely 

In  courts  that  angels  throng. 

O  call  most  grateful  to  the  heavy  laden, 

To  children  of  the  soil, 
A  common  respite  to  both  youth  and  maiden 

Whose  lives  are  filled  with  toil! 
Transforming  magic  of  a  painter's  fiction, 

Of  Art's  divinest  powers, 

Sheds  on  bared,  bended  heads  Heaven's  benedic- 
tion 

As  dew  is  shed  on  flowers. 


[135 


WAYS  OF  SONG 

1  HEY  come  by  quiet  ways, 

The  songs  we  hear 
Filling  the  summer  days 

With  happy  cheer, 

That  charms  the  rustic  ear 

With  melody  loud  ringing  sweet  and  clear. 

Along  the  river's  side 

Where  alders  grow, 
Songs  wander  with  the  tide, 

Now  fast,  now  slow, 

Their  liquid  numbers  go 

Cadenced  to  music  with  the  waters'  flow. 

Songs  come  in  the  early  morn, 

At  the  hour  of  prime, 
When  the  laughing  day  is  born 

On  the  shores  of  time, 

And  with  the  lark  they  climb 

To  lofty  realms  of  ecstasy  and  rhyme. 

And  the  songs — they  do  not  leave 

With  departing  day, 
Through  dusky  hours  of  eve 

With  us  they  stay, 

Companions  on  our  way, 

Making  the  land  of  dreams  their  own  for  aye. 


136 


ART   IS  NOT  ALL 

11 OW  many  a  form  of  beauty  and  of  grace 

Yet  sleeping  in  its  bed  of  marble  lies, 
Without  the  hand  to  wake  it  from  its  place 

And  beckon  it  to  world  of  light  arise, 
When,  with  sweet  magic  of  a  smiling  face, 

That  form  may  bless  the  sight  of  mortal  eyes! 
There  it  may  lie  and  sleep  forevermore, 
May  dream  its  long  dream  o'er, 

If  Heaven  send  not  the  gift 

Some  raptured  soul  to  lift 
Into  ethereal  regions  of  the  skies, 

Whence  it  may  view  that  vision  and  adore. 

How  many  a  song  has  never  yet  been  heard, 

Has  never  yet  by  mortal  lips  been  sung ; — 
No  trembling  pulses  of  the  air  has  stirred, 

Nor  magic  bells  invisible  been  rung ; 
How  many  a  syllable  of  fancied  word 

Been  lost  the  jarring  speech  of  men  among! 
And  there  in  silent  rest  shall  sleep  so  long 
As  madness  holds  the  throng, 

Till  Heaven  send  from  above 

Sweet  influence  of  love, 
That  may  at  length  inspire  a  tuneful  tongue 

To  frame  in  numbers  an  immortal  song. 


137] 


FORESHADOWINGS 

W  HO  in  the  dreaming  of  his  childhood  sees 

A  land  of  beauty  stretching  far  away 
Into  those  magical  dim  distances 

Of  evening  purple  and  of  morning  gray, 
To  him  in  later  years 
Our  world  appears 
Radiant  in  glory  of  a  perfect  day. 

Who  in  the  dreaming  of  his  childhood  hears 

Sweet  singing,  as  of  angels  trooping  by, 
Whose  utterance  of  feeling  is  by  tears 
That  come  to  soften  an  impassioned  cry, 
To  him  in  later  years 
Will  ringing  spheres 
Send  down  celestial  music  from  on  high. 

The  vision  granted  to  our  infancy 

Shows  as  if  shining  through  cathedral  panes, 
And  what  appears  angelic  melody 

Grows  surely  such  as  less  of  life  remains ; 
When  struck  are  tents  of  age 
For  final  stage, 
Vision  and  voice  outvalue  all  our  gains. 


[138] 


THE   SINGER'S   TASK 

1  HE  singer,  who  is  Nature's  worshipper 

And  her  interpreter, 

Serves,  too,  as  acolyte 
In  Truth's  fair  temple  at  some  sacred  rite. 

It  is  for  him  to  put  in  harmony 

Voices  of  earth  and  sea, 

The  cataract's  loud  roar, 
The  sound  of  billows  breaking  on  the  shore ; 

The  swallow's  twittering  call,  the  loon's  lone  cry 

Beneath  a  stormy  sky; 

To  note  in  falling  rain 
Drops  that  are  tears  of  joy,  others  of  pain. 

The  singer  is  assigned  the  task  to  take 

Discordant  notes  and  make 

A  melody  to  bless 
The  heart  that  feels  world  sorrow  and  distress. 

Well  could  he  wish  the  happy  fortune  here 

To  lisp  one  word  of  cheer 

That  should  have  grace  to  ease 
One  hour  of  grief,  one  kindred  soul  to  please. 


139 


SONG   BY  THE   RIVER 

1  HERE'S  a  mist  on  the  water  tonight, 

A  veil  drawn  silently  o'er 
Its  face,  concealing  from  sight 

The  shore  from  its  opposite  shore ; 
And  the  mist  is  all  snowy  white, 
As  a  sheet  spread  under  the  light 
Of  the  faithful  stars  shining  bright 

In  their  wonted  places  once  more. 

As  the  darkness  deepens  around, 
And  the  stars  more  roguishly  wink, 

To  a  fainter  echo  of  sound 
The  noises  of  daytime  sink ; 

And  over  the  ledges  near, 

Through  the  sedges  withered  and  sere, 

The  breeze  and  the  current  we  hear, — 
Song  is  born  at  the  river's  brink. 

All  night  with  a  rhythmical  flow 

Moves  on  that  musical  tide, 
The  currents  hastening  go 

But  the  cadenced  lapses  abide ; 
When  the  mists  on  the  morrow  arise 
And  vanish  in  roseate  skies, 
Then  the  magic  of  melody  dies, — 

Song  dies  on  the  river's  side. 


[140] 


SONG'S   NATIVITY 

is  no  alien  here, 

No  exile  driven  by  Fates, 
Nor  beggarly  does  Song  appear 

A  stranger  at  our  gates ; 
For  Song  is  native  to  our  land, 
At  home  upon  the  Plymouth  strand 
Since  when  did  prayerful  Pilgrim  band 

Sing  "hymns  of  lofty  cheer." 

Wherever  Nature  lays 

On  tuneful  reed  her  lips, 
And  when  her  careless  finger  plays 

'Mong  vocal  fir-tree  tips, 
She  blends  the  breakers'  heavy  roar 
With  lapse  of  ripples  on  the  shore ; — 
Together  winds  and  waters  pour 

A  symphony  of  praise. 

Wherever  hearts  are  worn 

By  tides  of  sympathy, 
And  where  are  bosoms  warmed  or  torn 

By  love  or  misery, 
There  will  the  Hand  that  underlies 
Wild  storm  and  breakers,  harmonize 
Joy's  shout  of  gladness,  Sorrow's  cries, 

And  there  the  Song  is  born. 


[141 


TO   BION 

W  E  watch  with  sweet  surprise 
Along  the  eastern  skies, 
Slow  shifting  dyes  from  purple  shade  to  saffron  of 

the  morn. 

We  hear  an  echo  stirred 
By  early  waking  bird, 

And  soft  is  heard  a  song  of  joy  that  another  day  is 
born. 

So,  too,  the  early  prime 
Of  the  waking  morn  of  time 
Is  heard  to  chime  with  that  sweet  voice  was  to  the 

Muses  dear; 
So,  too,  again  would  we 
Hear  that  sweet  minstrelsy 
So  tenderly  was  sung  of  old  to  Pan's  delighted  ear. 

O  singer  of  the  day, 
When  this  was  but  the  gray 
Dim  light,  astray  along  the  far,  low  margin  of  the 

east, 

Still  do  we  listen  long 
To  music  of  thy  song 

That  helps  prolong  the  gaiety  of  Life's  ambrosial 
feast! 


[142 


AT   DELPHI 

O  PRIESTESS  Maid,  inspired  of  Apollo, 

To  whom  dark  purposes  of  Fate  are  shown 
In  troubled  visionary  dreams  that  follow, 

Breathed    vapor    from    the    earthquake-riven 

stone ; 

O  Priestess,  tell  to  me, 
Was  there  revealed  to  thee 
Far  off  this  land  remote — beyond  the  sea? 

And  could  you  in  enraptured  moments  gather, 

As  echoed  back  from  undiscovered  shore, 
Some  strains  that  made  the  ear  uncertain  whether 
These  had  not  come  to  it  in  times  before; 
Were  you  aware  that  we 
Were  trying  here  to  be 
Worthy  Apollo's  lead  in  minstrelsy? 

We  come  today  with  slender  songs  of  ours, 
Upon  your  altar  these  poor  gifts  we  lay, 
To  him  you  serve  devote  our  fullest  powers, 
No  other  means  than  these  have  we  to  pay 
The  gratitude  we  owe, 
What  godhead  doth  bestow 
On  us  gifts  that  were  shared  by  the  Muses  long  ago. 


[143] 


MUSIC   OF   THE   HEART 

IT  is  not  joined  with  any  word, 
By  mortal  ear  is  never  heard, 

Untaught  is  it  by  any  art; 
But  in  the  quiet,  rhythmic  beat 
Of  daily  living,  we  repeat 

The  low  sweet  music  of  the  heart. 

Sometimes  the  notes  are  only  sad, 
At  other  times  are  blithely  glad, 

But  why  they  are  is  never  known ; 
We  only  gather  from  the  change, 
So  sudden,  of  so  wide  a  range, 

The  music  is  not  all  our  own. 

Our  hands  have  not  the  needed  skill 
To  strike  with  sympathetic  quill 

The  strings,  all  ready  on  their  part; 
But  from  the  Master  Hand  these  take 
A  magic  touch,  with  power  to  wake 

The  slumbering  music  of  the  heart. 

The  Hand  that  stretched  the  trembling  strings 
Had  thought  to  rule  their  quiverings, 

Gave  these  their  movement  from  the  start, 
So  that  they  sound  a  symphony 
That  runs  throughout  infinity, — 

The  low  sweet  music  of  the  heart. 


[144] 


BY    TURNS 

Y  EAR  after  year 

The  singing  birds  appear 

With  their  repeated  song, 
And  day  by  day 
Our  out-door  world  is  gay 

Through  all  the  summer  long. 

Year  after  year 

The  birds  will  disappear 

From  orchard  and  from  wood ; 
But  day  by  day 
Remembered  song  will  stay 

Through  winter's  solitude. 

Year  after  year 

Wild  flowers  blossom  here, 

Our  longing  look  to  greet ; 
But  day  by  day 
The  flowers  will  fade  away 

With  fragrance  growing  sweet. 

Year  after  year 

Do  birds  and  flowers  cheer 

The  late,  reluctant  spring; 
And  day  by  day 
Are  we  as  glad  as  they 

For  blessings  which  they  bring. 


145 


SPELL   OF   SILENCE 

1  HIS  lovely  vale  how  soundly  sleeps 

Amid  the  silence  of  the  hills, 

A  silence  that  completely  fills 
The  cradled  loneliness  that  keeps 

Close  fellowship  with  brooks  and  rills! 

Hushed  are  the  voices  of  the  breeze, 
And  here  are  lips  of  Nature  dumb ; 
Are  heard  but  whispered  breathings  from 

Pine  needles  and  bee-haunted  trees — 
From  Nature's  heart  to  ours  come. 

Sweet  are  the  harmonies  between 
Ourselves  and  Nature,  in  her  mood 
Of  pensiveness,  where  none  intrude 

Beyond  the  audible  and  seen 
To  what  by  none  is  understood. 

Within  that  outer  court  we  stay 

Our  steps ; — content  our  heart  as  well 
With  what  the  Sibyl  leaves  may  tell ; 

And  on  our  lips  our  finger  lay 

That  others  may  not  break  the  spell. 


[146] 


SING  ON,  MY  LUTE! 

on,  my  Lute,  my  hand  is  fain 

To  rest  a  little  while  from  play, 
It  seems  that  touch  must  now  be  vain, 

Your  strings  have  learned  so  well  the  way 
To  sound  the  feeling  of  my  soul 
That  now  no  more  they  need  control ; — 

Along  your  sympathetic  chords 

Run  now  my  thoughts  beyond  my  words. 

Sing  on,  my  Lute,  still  let  me  hear 

What  measures  you  have  learned  from  me, 

Sing  on  the  while  and  do  not  fear 
That  I  shall  chide  your  minstrelsy ; 

The  melody  that  softly  rings 

Beneath  the  movement  of  your  strings 
Is  but  a  low,  a  sweet  refrain 
Come  back  from  half -forgotten  strain. 

Sing  on,  sing  on,  my  gracious  Lute, 
Nor  think,  because  I  rest  a  while 

From  song,  because  my  lips  are  mute, 
There  is  less  need  that  you  beguile 

The  fleeting  fancies  of  my  brain 

And  bring  them  back  to  thought  again ; — 
Less  need  you  stir  the  deepest  springs 
In  sympathy  with  quivering  strings. 


147 


WHITHER   FLED 


AHI 


who  can  tell 
Since  when  the  Muses  left  Castalian  spring 
In  what  fair  region  of  the  earth  they  sing, 
Where  now  they  dwell? 

They  sing  no  more 

Those  sweetly,  softly  cadenced  numbers  there 
At  foot  of  Helicon — the  cloud-capped — where 

They  sang  of  yore. 

Nor  do  we  hear 

That  musically  measured  lilt  of  song, 
On  breath  of  balmy  breezes  borne  along, 

From  far  or  near. 

The  wide  world  round 
Today  we're  deafened  by  the  roar  of  trade, 
And  in  the  Muses'  sacred  name  is  made 

But  Babel  sound. 

Whither  to  go 

Away  from  crowded  haunts  of  frenzied  men, 
That  we  may  hear  the  Muses  sing  again, 

Soft,  soft  and  low? 


148 


GARDEN   OF   LETTERS 

PERHAPS  outside  my  little  plot 

Of  letters,  lying  far  or  near, 
There  may  be  some  yet  richer  spot 

Than  this  on  which  I  labor  here, 
But  this  was  ready  to  my  hand, 

The  only  heritage  was  mine, 
A  bit  of  eastward-sloping  land 

With  olive  tree  and  clambering  vine. 

Through  this  there  runs  a  quiet  stream 

Of  fancy,  flowing  bright  and  clear, 
Within  its  pools  as  in  a  dream 

All  charms  of  Paradise  appear; 
By  sedgy  banks  lithe  rushes  break 

Its  surface  as  it  slips  along, 
And  on  the  reeds  the  ripples  make 

A  natural  melody  of  song. 

Now  have  I  given  much  thought  and  care, 

Much  toilsome  labor  to  the  ground, 
That  I  might  leave  a  garden  fair 

And  blossoming  as  it  was  found, 
And  that  the  idly  running  rill 

Might  keep  its  voice  of  melody 
To  sing  in  happy  hours  still 

Some  song  that  it  has  learned  of  me. 


149 


SONG   IN   NOVEMBER 


T, 


HE  woods  are  silent  now, 

Where  just  a  little  while  ago, 
From  bending  twig  and  leafy  bough, 

Was  heard  loud  overflow 
Of  happiness  in  rippled  song 
That  ran  along 

Fringed  brookside  of  green  meadow  land  below. 

There  is  left  singing  still, 

As  it  has  sung  all  summer  long, 
Soft  crooning  voice  of  laughing  rill 

With  rains  of  autumn  strong ; — 
How  did  this  in  the  earlier  time, 
With  linnet's  chime, 

Lend  its  low  undertone  to  woodland  song! 

We  have  that  liquid  note 

Till  Winter's  icy  hand  at  last 
Is  laid  on  Nature's  tuneful  throat, 

Her  lips  are  closed  fast, 
And  then  will  bare  trees  clash  and  roar, 
Straining  before 

The  might  and  madness  of  wild  northern  blast. 


[150] 


MY   LUTE,   GOOD-BYE 

JVlY  Lute,  good-bye  to  thee! 
Thou  must  have  come  to  know  the  hand 

That  trembles  on  thy  quivering  strings, 
Obedient  to  its  command 

Thy  gentle  voice  harmonious  rings 

To  what  thy  master  sings ; 
And  now  that  he  has  fully  paid 
What  vows  were  to  the  Muses  made, 

His  song  at  last  must  be 

Good-bye,  my  Lute,  to  thee! 

Good-bye,  dear  Lute,  to  thee! 
Thy  strings  all  ready  are  to  break; — 

I  know  it, — my  heart  tells  me  so — 
And  yet  my  hand  is  fain  to  wake 

A  melody  of  long  ago 

To  Memory  singing  low; 
I  would  this  fond  stroke  of  thy  string 
From  out  of  Paradise  should  bring 

A  sainted  voice  to  me ; — 

Good-bye,  good-bye  to  thee. 


[151 


DEDICATING   MY   LYRE 

1  0  the  fair  temple  of  the  Muse 

I  bring,  to  dedicate  to  her, 
The  lyre  I  can  no  longer  use ; — 
She  certainly  will  not  refuse 

A  most  devoted  worshipper. 

Here  where  the  day's  departing  light 

Shines  on  the  polished  Parian  walls, 
I  hang  my  poor  mute  lyre  tonight 
And  watch  it  fading  from  my  sight, 
As  over  it  the  shadow  falls ; 

And,  when  the  night's  soft  brooding  wings 

O'erspread  the  blue  Castalian  sky, 
I'll  breathe  "Farewell"  upon  the  strings, 
Round  which  a  conscious  music  clings, 
And  they  will  give  me  back,  "Good-bye." 

Thou,  too,  my  Muse, — a  friend  most  kind, 
Since  in  my  earlier  years  we  met, 

Wilt  keep  the  lyre  I  leave  behind, 

Keep  him  who  offers  it  in  mind ; 
So  will  he  ne'er  his  Muse  forget. 


[152] 


L'ENVOYE 

VJOE  litel  booke  with  happy  heart, 
With  winged  sandals  to  thy  feet, 

Kind  wishes  watch  thy  steps  depart, 
May  smiling  lips  thy  coming  greet ; 

Go  with  the  singing  of  a  song 

To  cheer  the  way  however  long, 
However  weary  it  may  be, 
Sing  on,  dear  little  book,  for  me. 

Go  to  the  cottage  of  the  poor 

Where  children  at  their  wonted  sport 
Are  happier  playing  round  the  door 

Than  rank  and  fashion  are  at  court ; 
There  let  your  sweetest  song  be  heard 
With  caroling  of  meadow  bird, 

And  in  high  strain  of  ecstasy 

Sing  on,  dear  little  book,  for  me. 

Go  whither  Fancy's  choice  may  lead 
And  falter  not  until  the  end, 

Whatever  be  thy  stress  or  need, 

Oh,  may'st  thou  never  lack  a  friend! 

But  ever  as  your  author  find 

The  world  at  heart  is  warmly  kind 
And  listens  gladly,  hearing  thee 
Sing  on,  dear  little  book,  for  me. 


LAUS   DEO 

HEN  finished  is  the  labor  of  our  lives, 
When  reached  the  goal  toward  which  the  spirit 

strives, 

At  last  brought  to  its  full  completion  stands 
Before  the  Master,  product  of  our  hands, 
Let  this  but  show  that  it  was  done  in  praise 
Of  Him  who  gave  the  strength  and  gave  the  days. 

It  may  be  but  a  slight  and  trivial  thing, 
The  little  song  that  I  have  tried  to  sing, 
Though  I  have  done  my  best  to  sing  it  well, 
The  hedgerow  linnet's  song  does  mine  excel; 
And  comfort  have  I  only  in  this  thought, 
In  praise  of  God  have  both  the  makers  wrought. 

One  takes  the  gift  of  song  to  practise  so 
As  Nature  taught  the  bird  long  time  ago, 
The  other  would  the  proffered  gift  refuse 
Lest  he  should  wrong  the  Giver  by  its  use, 
And  that  is  how  the  bird  with  greater  ease 
Than  I  doth  sing  the  heart's  own  melodies. 


154 


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